Valar Botis (All Men Must Endure)
by Falcon-Rider
Summary: "But you, Lord Snow, you'll be fighting their battles forever." Ser Alliser Thorne Every time he died his last in that life he awoke again in another at the exact moment of Ghost's birth. (Time Travel)
1. Early Summer

Note: This is being reposted from AO3 from my account, Sanva. This will be VERY slow to repost and will be done in large sections (this part is 9 chapters from the AO3 version). I have 150k words of this already posted and more written so don't pester me to make huge changes to plot.

Jon = Jaehaerys in this fic

Aegon = Jon's half brother (Aegon VI Targaryen) OR Fake!Aegon, depending on the life mentioned.

Pairings: Don't ask who Jon will be paired with in the main time line. It annoys me. This won't be Jon/Dany or Jon/Arya.

However Jon may be paired with any number of people in the flashbacks.

This started out as a self prompt "Jon Snow: Live. Die. Repeat" that morphed into time travel fix it + wish fulfillment somehow.

I wrote this for fun and as an exercise to get myself to write. This has not been beta read or looked over by anyone but me. Please advise if I get any terminology incorrect.

There will be a mix of TV Show and book canon. There will be some "Fanon" elements here and there. Details vary life to life. Some characters will be a bit OOC or aged up slightly.

I apologize for any issues in formatting as I haven't used this site in forever until today in order to head of plagiarism as someone reposted my fic White Wolf, Red Fox here without permission.

* * *

" _ **But you, Lord Snow, you'll be fighting their battles forever."  
Ser Alliser Thorne**_

* * *

" _Jon!"_

 _Hands tugged at him, lifting his head and shoulders from the biting cold of the sludge beneath him. The cold seeping through his veins, radiating from the throbbing pain in his chest, only increased._

" _No. No. Don't—Jon." His name was bitten out in an almost sob, such deep emotion spurring him to force his eyes open._

 _After a moment, he could focus on the bright violet eyes of his brother. A strand of silver hair glittered in the dim light between them having fallen out of the cord Aegon used to keep it back when riding Viserion._

" _Aeg—" Jon managed to cough out. The pain once biting was dulling to a dull ache._

" _You promised to show me Winterfell, brother. We were supposed to go there together." Aegon's fingers clenched on his shoulders before he reached one hand down to grasp Jon's right hand._

 _It was a promise Jon loathed to break. He had so hoped to have a happy ending here, with as much family as he could find. Bran was at Winterfell at least. The Starks would live on through him and Meera, Jon was sure. Arya and Rickon still missing, but they had heard things and had ideas on where to look for them._

" _Are—is—" Jon gasped a bit, struggling to focus as his vision was blurring gray at the edges._

 _Something wet fell against his cheek. "Yes, brother, Spring will come. You did it."_

" _We." Jon did his best to tighten his fingers against Aegon's._

" _We," Aegon acknowledged. "All of us. Together."_

 _There was a beat of silence between them and to Jon the sounds of battle around them, of Viserion's mournful hisses and cries in the distance, grew quieter. The pain was almost gone now._

" _Ar—Ar— "_

" _I'll find her. Her and Rickon." Aegon's fingers clenched his tightly. "I promise."_

 _The hazy image of his brother faded, disappearing into the black fog of death._

" _Ghost."_

* * *

Jon gasped deep, curling upward as a phantom memory of pain merged with dull ache of sudden hurt as something landed on his chest. He spluttered and gasped, eyes flying open as a familiar laugh reached his ears.

He clenched his hands on the shoulders of the small form on his chest, small fingers poked and prodded at his shoulders. Swallowing his first reactions—physical and vocal—Jon focused on the form hovering over him.

"Arya?"

"Come on! Get up!" She bounced backwards on the bed, pouting at him. "Nellwyn is having her pups!"

"Nellwyn?" Jon's eyebrows furrowed as he looked over to his brother. They were still in the room they'd shared near the nursery, before Lady Stark had forced them to move to more 'adult' rooms when Rickon neared his first name day.

"The direwolf Father brought back on the hunt last week," Robb raised an eyebrow as he pulled on his boots. "Arya's been trying to convince Father to name it that."

"It's having pups! We're going to have direwolves like the Starks of old!" She smiled at him brightly showing off several missing teeth. She'd lost one around her sixth name day or so, falling from a tree.

"That's just Old Nan's stories, Arya," Robb ruffled her hair as he came up behind her. Her braids had mostly come undone already.

She glared at him for a moment before shifting on her feet, heels bouncing impatiently. "Hurry up," she turned to Jon again, "or we'll miss the birth!"

"All right," Jon smiled at her as he moved to stand, pulling on a shirt that lay on the floor near his bed. If Robb was just going with the basics so would he. "All right. Did you wake up Sansa?"

Arya wrinkled her nose before grinning. "Not yet." The 'do I have to?' evident in her tone and expression.

He caught one of his boots, thrown to him by Robb, and shoved his foot inside. Jon already knew they had missed at least one of the births—he wouldn't be here otherwise.

"Go wake up Sansa, Arya," Robb said and she rolled her eyes before running from the room.

"I hope father does not try to lay the blame on us. I don't want to be held responsible for Arya being awake at this hour," Jon mumbled around a yawn as he followed his brother—cousin really, but to him Robb would always be his brother—to the door. The words slipped out before he could stop them. _I don't want Lady Stark to blame me._ In nearly every iteration she held the same view of him.

Robb glanced at him knowingly. "We won't get in trouble."

He sighed and following at Robb's heels as Sansa screeched at Arya down the hall.

Excitement bubbled within him as his mind crossed over to fully awake. He hadn't seen Ghost in nearly five moons and his companion's absence had been a physical ache within him. It always was when the wolf died before he did. It had only taken him five lives to realize that it didn't matter when his companion died, but he always arrived when Ghost was born.

* * *

Jon was right. Four pups were already born by the time they reached the kennel. It was shocking to see the size of the mother wolf, let alone see her alive and in relatively good shape. She had a healing injury to her shoulder that he assumed could be attributed to the boar Robb mentioned.

Lord Stark was there with her, kneeling in the straw near her head, one hand stroking gently in the rough fur behind her ears. They were greeted with a tired smile and a raised eyebrow.

Arya nearly ran into the stall, but Jon grabbed her arm and held her near the door, standing behind her as Robb slid past them. Sansa had grumbled the entire way but she had come along after forcing them to wait even longer, to Arya's annoyance, as she made herself 'presentable'.

"It's so messy!" Sansa squeaked next to him, shuffling her feet as she eyed the mess in the straw.

Their father laughed, looking impossibly young. Jon had to force his eyes away towards the small forms next to the large wolf. She was in the middle of birthing another, he could tell, four forms already mostly cleaned and laying near her chest, squirming and squeaking. The moment his eyes landed on Ghost's pale form the world shifted and clicked into place. He was smaller than the rest, nestled against the largest—a small form Jon was certain was Grey Wind.

"Aye, birthing is messy business no matter what creature is doing it."

"I never want to do it," Arya announced after a moment of silence, voice sure.

Jon couldn't help but grin slightly. Ironically in most of the lives he'd lived Arya had been the only Stark to have a child. It was quite true that she had never been happy about the process, though, cursing her paramour loudly and with vulgarity that shocked Jon no matter how much he'd seen the few times he'd been present when his nephews or nieces were born.

The mother wolf finished cleaning the fifth pup—Summer—Jon realized and gently maneuvered it next to the other four, nosing each gently. She paused over Ghost and Jon clenched is fists. Her eyes lifted and met his for a long moment and Jon's breath caught.

Lord Stark frowned and then smiled slightly as the mother wolf acknowledged the little, white as snow pup with a light nudge and gentle lick before checking on the others. A few minutes later the next, and last pup, was being forced into the world.

"Six pups," Robb said and grinned over at Jon after Shaggydog was born. Searching his new memories Jon realized Rickon had been born barely moons ago. "One for each of the Stark children."

Sansa made a soft noise, almost protesting, but was caught up in Lord Stark motioning her over to greet the pups, following Robb.

She was immediately drawn to Lady's small form, stroking a gentle finger over her small head. "Can we keep them Father?"

"You'll train them yourselves," he said after a moment fingers burrowed in the mother wolf's scruff. "Do not come here by yourselves until they are weaned and don't argue. This one is wild, no matter how tame she's been acting with me. I don't want to have to fight your mother over this."

"Even with the kennel door closed?" Sansa asked, she was staring at the wriggling pile of pups with a focus Jon didn't remember her having at this age.

Lord Stark paused for a moment before speaking. "If the door is shut and locked. You are to stay back from the gate if she comes near." As if to argue with his caution, the mother wolf nudged his empty hand with her nose, tongue coming out to kiss it gently. "Do you agree to these terms?"

"Yes!" They all agreed quickly, Arya's voice the loudest.

They had been bundled off to bed not long after their father accepted vows from each of them separately on the matter, each also having paced forward to gently touch one of the pups. Jon had been the last; Robb hovered at the door as he stepped forward at Lord Stark's urging.

The words came unbidden to Jon's lips. "I'm not a Stark."

"You have my blood," Lord Stark corrected him. "You may not have my name but you are a Stark." A gentle smile graced his lips as he nodded toward the pile of pups. "You've had your eye on one of these since you arrived. Come and greet him."

Jon tried not to lose his footing as he moved forward quickly, pausing just in front of the small pack eyes meeting the mother wolves, asking permission, before he knelt. Ghost was so small, smaller than Jon had ever seen him. When he touched the pale silky fur, it was still damp to the touch.

"Hello, Ghost," Jon murmured. _Hello again, old friend, I've missed you._

* * *

Winterfell itself almost perfectly matched his memories, a picture of bustling activity and happiness. Jon's heart ached as he saw familiar face, faces long gone to him—dead dozens of times over—alive and well. One of the servant's daughters, a girl named Gwelda whose blood he could remember painting the snow at in front of the stables in more than one life, blushed prettily at his attention, causing him to glance away awkwardly.

It was early yet, the sun barely gracing the edges of the sky, painting a pretty picture of golds and blues with a bit of purple fading into gray in the west. Jon pulled his cloak close to himself, less to ward off the chill and more to feign bashfulness. He needed to gain control of his reactions, figure out what was the norm for twelve-year-old Jon Snow, but it was difficult as he couldn't remember the last time he'd been twelve; all his lives had started years past this point.

The Godswood was blessedly empty, silent but for the early morning birds twittering the news of dawn to their fellows. Dew glistened across the grass and a field mouse sped away from the water's edge as he neared the small pond. The Heart Tree was as majestic as every other time he saw it, drawing him in. He knelt before it, staring up at the crying face, taking in every detail; each groove, bump, and divot carving itself deep into Jon's soul as he faced it.

In some lives, especially at first, he had forsaken Gods—screamed and cursed every single one he knew of from the Old to the New, R'hllor, the Drowned God, every one he could name and those he could not. Then he spent lives devoting his time to each, begging to be set free of this curse.

Not once had his prayers been answered. Whichever God that had seen fit to curse him didn't want to set him free.

His last attempt at following a path of devotion, he'd attempted to follow what was Arya's usual path. Jon attempted to become no one only to fail as he had lived too many lives; his sense of identity was too ingrained to become no one.

Jon sighed, bowing his head and resting one hand on a pale root before closing his eyes. He prayed then, focusing his thoughts on the Old God's who he'd followed since that last failed attempt at begging a deity that wasn't his.

Every life he lived had been nearly identical in detail at the beginning until this one, at least for the most part. The only differences he'd ever truly detected stemmed from his birth father's bloodline. At first it was just Jon's eyes, drifting between grey, brown, and a grey-violet hazel from world to world—they were grey in this one—but then that was the most easily noticed detail for him. Perhaps there were other changes but they were more difficult to detect and didn't intersect with his usual paths often.

It wasn't just his eyes, sometimes his siblings lived. Every few lives Aegon could be found in Essos, preparing to mount an attack on Westeros, training to be a King. It wasn't always Aegon though, several times Jon had gone to meet his brother only to find a Blackfyre pretender propped up in his likeness.

He prayed that wouldn't happen in this life.

As for Rhaenys, Jon had only met her once but she'd lived during three of his lives; once with Aegon and twice in Sunspear. She had grown into a beautiful woman and although standoffish had accepted him, allowing him to be an uncle to her son and daughter. They had been the three heads of the dragon in that world—Daenerys had been killed by Warlock while negotiating for Unsullied.

Jon focused his thoughts again, praying for guidance and his family—prayed that Aegon would live at least and Daenerys would be safe until they met again. He prayed that Viserys would be kinder to her though he knew that was for naught. He prayed for the Starks, for Samwell, Ygritte and Tormund, for the Giants. Names upon names filtered through his mind, a long practiced rote for him, a list of friends and allies he cared for or needed.

At last he turned back to this life, praying for advice on how to handle his current situation. He'd never come back this far before. He was years younger than any other life and, for the first time, the mother wolf had lived longer than a few breaths.

She was living and seemingly bonded to Lord Stark.

This scenario was too different; everything about it caused his head and heart to ache. He couldn't trust in the knowledge of hundreds of lives here. Any move he made could change so much…was it a blessing? An opportunity to prevent more deaths? Or a curse to watch more die?

Was it one more cruel way to torment him, to cause him pain after a winning streak of a dozen or so lives in the fight for Dawn?

What could a twelve-year-old bastard do that an adult couldn't?

* * *

 _Caution was something Jon should have in spades by now, especially when stepping upon untried paths and meeting with people he'd only heard vague tails of. Assuming Viserys—his uncle—would be anything like the rest of the Targaryen's he'd met has been a horrible mistake. One that Jon certainly planned on never making again._

 _The man was a coward and mad, but smart. In a straight fight, he never could have beaten Jon. If Ghost hadn't gone hunting, Viserys would have died the second he pulled the dagger from his belt._

 _But here they were, Viserys leaning over him grinning wickedly, his silver hair gleaming in the dim firelight and his violet eyes filled with hate. Jon should have asked Daenerys more about her brother before ever attempting to intervene in their paths._

 _Viserys scowled at him, pressing the dagger flush against the thin skin above Jon's jugular. The drug Viserys had poisoned him with was roaring through his blood, keeping him in place as pain lanced through his nerves but his muscles were lax, any useful movement prevented._

" _It's all your whore of a mother's fault," Viserys growled at him digging the dagger deep enough a few drops of blood spilled onto the edge of the blade._

 _Jon was so stupid, stupid and complacent, to allow things to get to this point. All he had wanted to do was to live a life with his other family. He'd crossed an ocean for this, spurning his Stark heritage outside of Ghost to see what good he might do at Daenerys' side. It had been so sweet to see her before she had been hardened into a Queen; into a conqueror._

" _If it hadn't been for her—for you—I wouldn't be here surrounded by filthy barbarians waiting for them to take back my throne. I'd have a palace, armies, and people kneeling to me across the seven kingdoms."_

 _No, Jon thought. No. Your father, your brother, or Aegon would have those. Not you. Never you._

" _You're nothing more than a bastard trying to steal my throne," Viserys narrowed his eyes, "I don't care if you're my nephew. Traitor blood runs through your veins, bastard. I can't have you influencing my sister and stealing my birthright. Rhaegar would have understood."_

 _The cold metal bit into his throat and Jon choked a bit as dampness spread across his skin and onto his chest. A moment later, as Jon's vision began to blur, a white blur leapt with a growl through the entry of the tent and slammed into the mad, beggar king._

 _Viserys screamed and as Jon's mind began to fade away he made a silent vow._

 _Jon would never allow Viserys to sit on the throne in any life he lived._

 _Jon had personally arranged Viserys' assassination in at least fifteen lives._

 _The first time it was done too early and Daenerys never hatched her dragons. He was careful not to let that happen again._

* * *

Trying to fit into a new world seamlessly was neigh impossible, no matter how much he tried Jon never could perfectly imitate a younger version of himself. Seven and ten, five and ten, his teenage years had always been difficult for him to transition to from an independent adult life. Two and ten was another challenge altogether. He had dropped into this body when it was amid changing from boy to man, early in the transition at that, bones growing and limbs gangly, voice squeaking oddly at times.

What might have bothered him the most, though, was just how short he was compared to Robb and Theon at this age. He knew that height was not something he would ever best anyone at, but by six and ten he had been only an inch or so shorter than his brother a fact that hadn't changed even after another growth spurt near the time he turned eight and ten. Robb had grown then as well.

"Ready to eat dirt, bastard?" Theon's shoulder bumped into his, the iron born grinning cockily at him. It wasn't exactly a nice grin, but then Theon had never been nice to Jon in any life.

Even when Jon's parentage was revealed early Theon's dislike for him just changed reasons. At least at this point it could be attributed to the boy grasping at someone that could be counted as 'below' him.

"Who's to say I shall be the one eating dirt?" Jon shot back, squaring his shoulders, fingers tightening around the pommel of his practice sword. He missed Longclaw and Dark Sister—Blackfyre even the few times he'd wielded it. It was Aegon's sword more oft than not when it crossed his path.

"I am!" Theon smiled as he fully turned to face him, spreading his arms wide. "I will make you eat it."

"Not today, Theon." Ser Rodrik settled a large hand on the young man's head, startling him. "I want you to work with Jory today. He's going to run you through the foot work you've been having difficulty with."

"Jon, you'll be sparing with Robb." He nodded towards Robb as the boy jogged up, slightly out of breath. His lessons with father must have run over. While Jon and even Theon and Bran, although far behind the older boys, shared most lessons with Robb, there were always a few times a week that Lord Stark spent solely with his heir. Jon knew that was something that would change as Bran grew older; the man had learned from the death of his father and siblings that the line of succession was not guaranteed.

Jon had joined in many times when he was younger until the disapproving words and gaze of Lady Stark and caused his lessons to dwindle. He had taken all his father's words to heart, inked them deep in his memory, using them in the lives where he'd been Lord Commander, King of the North, Robb's Hand, and a myriad of other positions. But he could never stop wondering how much better of a leader he could have been if he had attended all of Robb's lessons.

Jon groaned sometime later as he lost balance, slipping and falling onto the damp earth.

"You all right?" Robb asked him, extending an arm to him, a concerned frown twisting his freckled features. "You've spent more time in the mud than on your feet today."

Jon clasped his brother's arm and allowed himself to be pulled upright. His brother was only slightly exaggerating. Once upright he pressed a hand to his hip and winced, feeling the bruise growing there. "Growing pains s'all. My balance has been a bit off."

"Maybe you'll catch up with me yet," Robb japed, attempting to scruff his hand over Jon's head.

Jon ducked away, nearly slipping in the damp dirt, which wasn't helping him any either. He desperately needed to slip away and practice his swordsmanship soon and often. Muscle memory and the memory of muscle memory were warring in his body and mind.

He could hear Greyjoy laughing at him, he'd given the boy quite a bit of entertainment today and he didn't want to provide too many repeat experiences. While his ego may be near non-existent these days Jon also didn't want to allow the Ironborn to best him for long at swordplay.

"I hope so," Jon groused at the sore point. Even Sansa had been slightly taller than him as adults. At least Arya hadn't bested his height.

"I think that's enough for now, boys." Ser Rodrik took pity on Jon a while later after a dozen more falls. "Take some time later to practice your foot work, Jon, I know you're growing but you're sloppy today."

"Yes, Ser." Jon nodded and moved to put away his practice equipment.

"And get yourself to the Maester before going to the dining room. Have him check you for anything more serious than bruises and growing pains," the master-at-arms ordered him, "I don't want your father upset because you let an injury go untended."

Jon nodded, inwardly cursing his half-grown body. He ached all over, but contrary to what Ser Rodrik requested he would tend to himself as he did in most lives. There were some liberties he wasn't quite ready yet to allow others, even a Maester, take with him and being examined by Maester Luwin for injuries would encompass most of them.

Checking for watchful eyes, not wanting to get in a confrontation with the knight, Jon made his way to the kennels. He felt drawn there still by the strengthening bond to Ghost. He could feel the pup's contentment in the back of his mind helping to ease his own emotions.

Arya was leaning against the metal gate when he arrived, fingers clenched around bars as she stared at the mother direwolf and her pile of pups. She was keeping her promise at least as the door was locked and the wolves far from the door.

He stopped next to her, eyes finding Ghosts small form nestled between Shaggy and Summer.

"What do you think of Visenya?" Arya asked, looking up at him. "Or Rhaenys?"

Jon startled a little at the names but smiled. "Both are good, strong names." He raised an eyebrow, looking back at her. "But I'm not sure naming a wolf after a dragon would be appropriate."

Lips twisting in thought, she nodded. "Nymeria?"

"We're talking about your wolf and not the mother, right?"

"Mine," Arya scowled, "Father says he'll name the mother if she decides to stay."

"She's a wild animal," Jon said after a moment's consideration. "Not a pet to be kept. We're just helping her for now. She'll be healed soon."

"Do you think the pup's will leave with her?" Arya squeaked, horrified at the idea.

The mother direwolf lifted her large head from its pillow of straw causing a raucous of whines as her body shifted, dislodging some of the pups from their meals. Jon met her golden eyes.

"No," he stated firmly, "I think the pups will stay no matter her decision."

"I hope so." Arya's fingers tightened around the gating.

"Arya," Robb called out to her as he walked up a few minutes later, "Septa Mordane is looking for you."

"You didn't tell her where I am, did you?" she groaned, peaking down the kennel hall.

"I didn't know you were here until just now," Robb said stopping behind her to look over her head. "How are the pups?"

"Doing well from the looks of things," Jon replied mentally prodding Ghost who brushed against his mind, completely content with his current circumstance. The pup had latched back onto one of his mother's nipples and was feasting again.

"I wonder how long it will take for them to get as big as their mother?" Robb mused.

"Maester Luwin says it could take years," Arya was the one to answer, "but that no one knows for sure because no one has written much on them."

"Perhaps he'll be the one to do so, then." Robb glanced down at his sister and then frowned. "Arya, Mother is going to be upset with you if you don't at least put some effort into your studies with the Septa today."

"I went earlier!"

"I think he means for things like embroidery and the like," Jon tugged on a braid, "not just for history and writing." He leaned in close to whisper in her ear. "I won't be able to teach you how to wield a blade if your Lady Mother is cross with you over avoiding other lessons."

She gasped, drawing away from him, eyes wide. "Really?"

"Yes," Jon said, standing straight. At her doubting look he continued, "I promise."

"You swear?" she prodded again. "To the Old Gods?"

"And the New."

They laughed as she ran off, skidding through stray clumps of straw.

"You aren't going to drag me into those lessons, are you?" Robb asked leaning next to him, bumping their shoulders together.

"'Course I am," Jon grinned, dodging the punch his brother threw at him. "I have to have someone to lay the blame on if your Lady Stark gets mad at me," he said before running off, Robb on his heels.

* * *

 _"Grey Wind?" Jon asked, startled, drawing his horse up short and causing the column of riders behind him to pause—a tidal wave of movement halting behind him._

 _His brother's direwolf stood before them in the middle of the road, larger than his own and covered in muck and blood. Its eyes were unnaturally colored and staring straight at him. A pit grew in the bottom of his stomach._

 _Ghost glided forward to meet his brother, slow and calculated in his movement instead of the usual exuberant puppy behavior he'd exhibit when meeting after a prolonged absence._

 _Jon had been leading his army back south after routing the Ironborn from Moat Cailin and preventing them from making their way to Winterfell. He'd left a small garrison, and organized things to keep a repeat attempt from being successful as well._

 _The moment Grey Wind appeared though, Jon knew all his careful maneuvering in this life had failed. Something had gone wrong while he was parted from Robb and his brother was gone._

" _Jon?" Dacey Mormont asked, pulling her horse up next to him._

" _Scouts," he stated, "I want outriders checking for signs of armies. Tell them not to trust who they see," he paused before turning to meet her gaze, "especially Bolton's and Frey's."_

 _In the end, it hadn't been either family that led the betrayal._

 _The Karstarks had taken affront to the death of their Lord and Robb's choice of paramour after he spurned Alys Karstark._

* * *

"Father?" Jon couldn't help shuffling his feet, barely preventing himself from staring at the toe of his boot while it scuffed across the dirt. Interrupting Lord Stark at prayer hadn't been his first choice, but after a fortnight of being thwarted at getting alone time with Lord Stark since making his choice on what path to take in this life he hadn't much of a choice. He wanted as much time to improve this world as he could get.

The path he'd chosen was one he'd only taken twice before, always with only a few moons until the royal party would arrive. This time he had, hopefully, years to travel it instead.

"May I speak with you privately?" Jon asked and after a short pause added, "Please?" He knew Lord Stark had been near done with his prayer, getting ready to end it and stand. The impatience of youth had prevented him from waiting that long though.

There was a pause, Lord Stark staying in his position for a minute longer before he stood and turned to face him.

"Of course, Jon." A smile graced his lips for a moment before morphing into concern. "Is something wrong?"

Jon glanced around, eyes checking their immediate vicinity, finding no one as he already knew he would. The route he'd taken through the Godswood had allowed him to check everywhere for prying ears before he approached Lord Stark.

"Yes. . . and no," he started, eyes moving up to meet the steel gray eyes of the man who had raised him. There was no easy way to do this. He'd run it through his head over and over and remembering what his previous attempts had taught him he decided that getting straight to the point would be the best route. "I—I woke up when Ghost, my direwolf, was born. I woke up and had memories I should not. Memories of lives lived, my lives but not. This life over and over again but with different choices made."

Lord Stark's brow furrowed as he spoke and he opened his mouth but Jon did not let him find his voice.

"I woke up in a new life following my last death in my previous life at the moment Ghost was born. I've lived dozens, hundreds of lives," Jon barreled on, lifting his chin up as he tried to ignore how his hands shook, clenching them into fists at his side, "I only have words available to me to attest to my claims. Knowledge is all the Gods send with me." He paused, taking a deep breath, gaze dropping to stare at Lord Stark's feet. "Memories and Ghost are all the comfort I'm allowed through this curse, Uncle."

There was a sharp intake of breath and his uncle shifted before him; a long silence stretched between them for minutes interrupted only by the occasional bird twittering and squirrel chattering in wood nearby.

It seemed as if an eternity passed before his uncle moved forward and a hand touched his chin, lifting it until he was forced to meet his gaze. Grey eyes searched his face as if trying to peer into his very soul.

Lord Stark's face was made of ice, emotions hidden behind the blankest of looks. Jon couldn't read him and he was glad of that. At the same time, he was also terrified.

"How do you know?" His uncle's voice was rough emotion that his face belied seeping through.

"Different ways," Jon answered honestly. It would do him no good to lie. "The first time I was told by Bran, who saw my birth in a vision. Lord Reed confirmed its truth for us. A few times I met my wet nurse, Wylla, as I traveled south for war or in attempts to find a better path. Most often Lord Reed spoke of it when we met." He swallowed thickly. "Five times I forced you to speak of it."

And each of those times he'd fled to Essos, using it as an excuse.

* * *

" _Do not push me on this, Jon," Lord Starks voice was low, but heated as he clenched his hands in the reins of his horse._

" _And if you die or I die before we meet again?" Jon glared, anger bursting inside him like wildfire and he doubted he'd be able to douse it._

" _What happens will happen. Do not ask me again." The horse shifted to the side beneath Lord Stark, foot stamping the dirt road. "Now is not the time nor place."_

" _When will be?" Jon asked bitterly, knowing the answer. "Perhaps I should ride south instead of north, visit Dorne and find my answers there if you will not speak of it."_

" _No. If you do not join the Night's Watch that is your choice. But I forbid you from going south."_

" _You would forbid me from seeking out my mother's family?" Jon laughed humorlessly. "I cannot stay in Winterfell, I cannot go south, I cannot stay with my family here, but I'm not allowed to seek out any other family I may have."_

 _Lord Stark's jaw clenched, eyes squeezing shut._

" _Should I drive a dagger through my heart now?" Jon continued voice harsh and filled with emotion long buried. "It seems I don't belong anywhere but with thieves, rapists, and murders in the eyes of you and Lady Stark. If not the Wall I may as well be dead, then. Perhaps it would be a kinder fate for a bastard like me."_

" _You have no family in the South, Jon." Lord Stark opened his eyes and sighed. "You would only find death there."_

* * *

"Her name?" His uncle dropped his hand onto Jon's shoulder, gripping tightly.

"Lyanna Stark," Jon stated, voice a hushed whisper, "and my father the Dragon who stole her."

His uncle moved forward, settling his other hand on his shoulders as well, bracketing him as he looked down at him. Jon felt impossibly young in that moment, young and small.

"I should have been the one to tell you," his uncle squeezed his shoulders gently, his voice filled with emotion that broke the mask, "I am sorry that I wasn't."

Jon's jaw dropped for a second, eyes widening. "You—You believe me?"

Bringing a hand to Jon's face, his uncles touched his cheek lightly, once and then twice and then settled it on the side of his face and neck. "You have never been one to jape," he smiled sadly at Jon, "and this is not knowledge that many have. Only three people still living knew it before now. And none would tell."

He dropped his hand back to Jon's shoulder and sighed. "I cannot say if I believe the whole of what you speak, but I would hear more before I draw conclusions." His uncle glanced away, eyes drifting over the tree line. "But not here," he continued, "this is not a conversation that should be had where wind can carry whispers."

Jon nodded and dropped his gaze again, glancing off to the side. "Where then?"

"After dinner come to my solar. We'll speak then," he said, gathering himself and moving towards the path to the courtyard.

"Thank you, Uncle," Jon murmured, nodding his agreement to the timing.

"And Jon?"

Jon lifted his head and turned to face him.

"You've been my son since the moment I first held you. You won't ever stop being _my son._ Don't forget that."

Eyes widening, a smile curled its way onto his features, true happiness shining through his broken mask.

"Thank you . . . Father."

Ned nodded again, returning the affection with a tight smile, heartfelt but warring with the thoughts and confusion their conversation had wrought. He left the Godswood then to attend to the day's business.

Jon stayed for another hour, just standing in the clearing, feeling the light breeze as it brushed through his curls and across his face, listening to the noise of the leaves clashing with each other gently in a never-ending battle. He stood there until a servant came to fetch him for lessons with Maester Luwin.

* * *

Lady Catelyn stayed at dinner for mere moments that night before asking a servant to bring her meal upstairs. Rickon was fussing more than usual, an illness of some type causing him discomfort and making his cries shrill. Everyone was thankful for the silence when they left and dinner was a great deal quieter than normal.

His father was lost in thought, picking at his meal and staring into nothingness. Barely halfway through the food he'd set on his plate he stood and bid them good evening before reminding Jon to meet him in his solar once he had finished eating.

"What was that about?" Robb asked, elbowing Jon in the side after their father left.

Jon shrugged, spearing a chunk of potato. "I asked if we could speak privately earlier."

"About . . ."

"Private things."

"Jon." Robb scowled at him, narrowing his eyes. The look on his face plainly stating he would not be letting this go if he didn't get a satisfying answer.

"About the future," Jon sighed, "my future." He turned is focus back to his plate, trying to force himself to eat more. He couldn't feel the hunger he knew should be there, his nerves frayed.

"Is Father going to have you fostered?" Sansa asked, piping up from across the table. She glared at Theon as he leaned over both the table and Robb to grab a roll from a basket.

"No," Jon shook his head and then amended quickly, "not that I'm aware of. He hasn't said anything."

"You aren't still thinking about joining the Nights Watch, are you?" Robb asked softly, scowl still firmly in place.

"Good place for a bastard," Theon put in only to have his next words cut off when Robb turned to glare at him.

"Theon."

"What?" Theon shrugged. "He won't be able to stay here forever. Might be the best place for him."

"Of course he can stay here!" Arya protested only to be cut off by Robb.

"You'll always have a place at Winterfell, especially once I'm Lord, Jon."

Jon smiled at his brother. "I know. And no. I'm not considering joining the Watch anymore." He pushed his plate back and stood, the feet of his chair scraping against the stone floor. "At least not for a long while."

The stew he'd managed to eat was a cold lump in his stomach. Any appetite he had previously was gone now and he didn't want to be a part of this conversation anymore.

"I should go. Father is expecting me," Jon said softly and Robb nodded.

Theon was speaking again, something about a serving girl, and Sansa squeaked out a horrified reply but their words didn't register with him. Jon passed Arya and Bran on the way to the door and smiled at them, reaching out to ruffle Bran's hair gently.

The younger boy leaned back and smiled at him. "What are you going to name your wolf, Jon?" he asked before Jon moved off.

Jon paused, chewing on his lip, thinking of the pure white ball of fur squirming amongst his siblings.

"Ghost. His name is Ghost."

* * *

His father's solar door was shut when he reached it and Jon stopped to stare at it for several long moments. There was so many potential positive changes that could be made on this path, but equally so many possible mistakes that could lead to nothing left in the world but a frozen waste land.

He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and knocked.

A moment later the door opened and his father was ushering him inside. The room was warm, a fire crackled and popped a new log having recently been added to the flames. In front of the hearth two chairs sat, a small chest on the floor between them, positioned so the lid would open away from the fire and allow both people to see its contents easily.

Ned bid him to sit and took the opposite chair for himself.

Jon stared at the chest as he settled, brow furrowed. It was very simple, perhaps a single coat of stain on the wood, but a complicated locking mechanism to keep it shut. The lock was undone now, though, ready to allow the lid to be opened.

"You haven't seen this before."

Jon shook his head. "No, I haven't." He'd lived hundreds of lives; very few surprises still existed for him. Or so he had thought.

"Wylla, your wet nurse," Jon looked up to his father who was running a hand over the chest, "insisted that the contents of this were to go with us and be given to you when the time was right. Everything else at the tower we burned to keep the knowledge of what happened there secret. To keep you safe."

Jon stared at it, trying to slow the storm of thoughts incoherently warring in his mind. A warm hand settled onto his shoulder, causing him to lift his gaze up to meet his fathers.

After a moment Ned sat up straighter and drew his hand back. "Perhaps we should start with the words you promised?" he sighed and smiled sadly. "The chest will still be here after. I wish to hear about these lives you've lived."

"It's a long story," Jon warned, sitting back, "long and full of death, misery, and chaos. I've lived dozens, hundreds of lives until my last death in each. I have tried dozens of paths to completion, changing the details to try and get them right." He pursed his lips and paused. "Few happy endings exist." _I've lost hope of finding one for myself._

"Perhaps a second pair of eyes could make a difference," Ned said voice low. "Sometimes others can see what we have missed."

"There are things, deaths, events, and knowledge I have that you will not like, but will be unable to unhear."

"I would hear as much as you can share. If only to ease your burden."

Jon eyed him for several minutes before nodding and turning his gaze to the flames dancing in the fire place. There were so many places he could start, but after a moment he settled on the beginning.

"Except for my first life, it always starts at Ghosts birth. Most often I'm around five and ten or six and ten. Sometimes older. During my first life, I was almost seven and ten. We always find the pups within a day or two and like every life until this one," he paused and turned back to his father, "the mother direwolf has always died."

"By a boar?"

"No," Jon answered, solemnly. The room seemed to chill. "By a stag."

* * *

The tale of his first life was the hardest to tell, as he would come to know over the next months. It was a trial for him to keep on track sometimes, some memories blurring together from other, similar lives causing him to have to back track a bit. Ned let him speak, trailing on and rambling all the details that he knew of his own part of the world and what happened to others—family, enemies, big events in the world. He spoke for hours, pausing to take a sip of water and at a particularly rough spot some spiced wine his father retrieved from his desk. They had needed it to get through the events of the red wedding as Jon knew them, among other things.

The mention of white walkers had led to the longest delay in the story as his father had stopped to confirm and then question him about every single detail he could remember of the Others once he spoke of the battle of Hardhome. He had to delve across dozens of lives for the information, even his last.

Jon was thankful then for the one life he had spent training to be a Maester—even though he had hated himself in the end. During that life, the North had been overrun by the time the rest of Westeros had come to realize the true threat, too caught up in fighting over a hunk of melted swords and the illusion of power, and he'd thrown himself from the highest spot he could find to end his life and start again.

It was one of the three times he'd committed suicide.

Pausing to take a sip of lukewarm water, tasting of herbs, Jon watched as his father ran a hand over his face as Jon reached the point of his first death where he'd been betrayed by his own brothers of the Nights Watch.

"And then I woke up, over a day later after the Red Priestess asked her God to bring me back."

Ned started then. "I thought when you died you awoke at the beginning?"

A sardonic grin wound itself across his face as he stared at the glass of water in his hands, trying to make out his own features in the dim light. "Only when the Gods allowed. Sometimes they deem my life not over yet and so I continue. I continue until a second death, a few times until a third or fourth if one of the priests got too close to me.

"How often did that happen?"

"A second death? A quarter of the time. I tried to avoid the Red God's followers as often as I could. It was hard to avoid them if I went to the Wall, sometimes in the Riverlands, and they are all over Essos."

Falling silent Ned took another gulp of wine and Jon took it as leave to continue. When he was done with his tale, about to speak of his next resurrection, a servant knocked on the door.

Jon fell silent as his father stood and answered. It was Lady Catelyn's handmaiden, inquiring as to where he was and how long he would be on her behalf. Listening with half an ear Jon let his attention turn back to the small chest between the chairs. Setting aside his glass he reached out and ran a hand over the smooth wood.

"We'll continue tomorrow, Jon." Ned startled him, standing behind his shoulder.

"Can I…" Jon's fingers pressed against the pale wood.

"You may," his father said and Jon blinked as a key, dangling on a chain, fell into his line of sight.

Looking over his shoulder, eyes wide, he stared at Ned who smiled sadly at him.

"This is yours, just like the contents. I trust I do not have to tell you not to remove the chest from this room quite yet, do I?"

"No," Jon shook his head. Sharing a room with his brother, surrounded by his other siblings and near the nursery didn't allow for much privacy. The door didn't even have a lock of any sort. Slowly, he took the chain and key, staring at it for a long moment.

A hand settled on his shoulder. "I'm going to arrange private rooms for you and Robb. Cat has been requesting it for some time now and as you two are growing quickly I believe now would be an opportune time."

Jon looked up as his fingers grasped the key tightly. There were many questions bubbling through his mind but was unable to settle on one. He didn't need to.

"You may look like just a boy, Jon, but that is not all that you are." Ned ruffled his hair gently before squeezing his shoulder again.

Perhaps his father had seen the war that was waging within Jon, between the boy of this life and the grown-men of his memories. This life was the hardest yet, perhaps it had something to do with how young his body was, but reconciling everything was more difficult.

Jon nodded once and dropped his gaze to the chest as he slipped the chain over his neck. He felt his father move to leave and frowned.

"Father?" he started. His father's steps stopped near the door.

"You should think about telling her," he said, leaning and slowly opening the lid of the chest. The hinges creaked with disuse. "She almost always dies still believing there was a woman out there that you loved enough to betray your honor and betray _her_. She dies believing you dishonored her in nearly every life."

He looked back over his shoulder, staring at his father's back. "Family. Duty. Honor," Jon continued. "You're her family and I'm yours."

"I have lied to her for twelve years," Ned's voice was barely a whisper.

"You cannot be forgiven without telling the truth."

"Lock the chest when you leave," Lord Stark said, emotion drained from his voice. "I'll show you how to unlock it fully tomorrow." His hand landed on the door knob.

"Where did you keep it?" Jon couldn't help but ask quickly. If he died before tomorrow, he would not do so without the answer. He couldn't bear not to find this chest again.

"In her crypt."

* * *

 _Jon let his eyes fall shut as Arya's arms wrapped around him and he hugged her back, tightly yet carefully. He was still healing from the wounds he'd received in the recent battle against the Karstarks. They'd won and Karhold was now under the North's control again—his control as King of the North—and Lady Alys Karstark now held power there rather than her cousins. On the road, back to Winterfell he hadn't expected to run into a small group of previously lost Northerners, including his little sister._

 _Some of the Lords—and Lady's—had been known to be alive, held captive in the south under the Frey's control. Other faces had been complete surprises._

 _Especially Lady Catelyn._

 _He could feel her cold eyes on him, unchanged or perhaps harsher than they had been in his youth. She knew he had been declared King, that much was clear in the few words that had been shared between the groups upon their initial meeting._

 _She also didn't like it._

 _In her eyes, he'd done what all Bastards are born wanting to do. He'd taken the birthright of his trueborn siblings and made it his._

* * *

The door shut with a sharp clack and Jon faced forward again, staring at a worn, rough brown cloth. His hand shook as he pulled it out of the chest, dropping it aside as it revealed the contents beneath it. Sliding off the chair his knees hit the floor and he pressed both hands against soft, embroidered black cloth. Carefully he pulled it out and after a minute of confusion he finally realized what it was.

A marriage cloak.

His vision blurred and he wiped at his eyes with his left forearm. Biting his cheek and staring at the stylized three headed dragon, beautifully intricate, he barely choked back a sob. Nearly every centimeter of the fabric was embroidered and while Jon couldn't claim to know much about fabric or womanly arts, he'd spent enough time with Sansa and Daenerys—among others—to know that the quality of this cloak was exquisite.

Fit for a princess.

* * *

" _Next time I see you—you'll be all in black," Robb said, grinning._

" _It was always my color." Jon responded, forcing a smile._

" _Let me give you some advice bastard. Never forget what you are. The rest of the world will not. Wear it like armor, and it can never be used to hurt you."_

* * *

This time he couldn't hold back the sob and then his eyes blurred and he couldn't contain the next either. He pulled the cloak fully out of the cloak and onto his knees, clenching his fingers deep into the fabric as tears filled his vision.

Had this always been the truth?

In every life?

Aegon had pondered on it a few times, most often when they were drunk. What if Rhaegar had taken Lyanna as a second wife as the Targaryen's of old had? But there had never been anyone alive that could confirm it. The Maester's in Oldtown had no record of it—or it had been destroyed—Howland Reed never knew, and Wylla had never spoken of it or had died before she could.

Sometime later he managed to gather control of himself, calming his sobs and the hiccups that had developed, fingers smoothing the wrinkles out of the fabric. He folded the marriage cloak as well as he could and set it aside gently, on top of the brown fabric that had hidden it.

There were other items in the chest, clumped together, most wrapped in cloth, some thicker than others. There was a very thick bed of cloth at the very bottom. Close to him was a leather-bound sheath of papers which he set aside, not wanting to delve into that mystery quite yet. Letters would take hours to read and it was already very late. As he peaked beneath each cloth, eyeing various treasures, he dislodged a long item, rolled in cloth that had leaned against the longest side of the chest.

Unwrapping it his eyes widened. It was a dagger, beautiful in design—both the hilt and the sheath—silver and gold intertwined in embellishments sparkling with rubies and sapphires. The guard had been designed to mimic roses, winter roses and red roses intertwined, and the pommel was a red-eyed dragon with its back to a blue-eyed wolf.

Carefully unsheathing it, Jon couldn't help but smile at the beautiful shine of Valyrian steel. He ran his fingers over the cool metal, admiring the craftsmanship before sheathing it and placing it aside as well.

Eyes roving over the other items, something drew him to the center of the chest, the bundle of fabric that was well packed, all the other items carefully placed around it. Adjusting himself, he carefully used both hands to reveal what was hidden, pulling away layers of fabric.

His breath caught in his throat once he had and he swallowed thickly.

 _Gods._

Shaking, his fingers gently caressed the rough, textured surface and then curled around it, grasping firmly to remove it from its hiding place.

It was pale, silver-white with a blue sheen that sparkled from pale as a clear summer sky to dark as midnight in a few places. He couldn't take his eyes off it as something clicked within him, feeling right and whole.

Jon had always managed a connection with whichever dragon he rode in the lives he lived. Usually he sat astride Rhaegal, sometimes Viserion, but it had never been like his connection with Ghost. It always seemed like trying to ride an unbroken stallion who had grown up in a wild herd with no human contact at all. This feeling was deeper, like what he felt from Ghost when they were a long distance away.

He pulled the egg to himself, cradling it. If only he didn't have to return it to the chest for the time being. Jon knew it wasn't quite ready to hatch deep down, but he also knew it wouldn't be long.

Gods be good! How would he—they—hide a dragon?

* * *

It was only a few hours, maybe less, until sunrise when he managed to pry himself away from the treasure trove his parents had left him—and the dragon egg—and go to bed. He slept in the next morning, waking only after Robb returned from breakfast with a roll and a sausage wrapped in a cloth for him.

He thanked his brother, bleary eyed and wanting very little else but to just roll back over, pull his furs over his head, and go back to bed. His body also ached still from the training he'd been sneaking off for in the Godswood and the training he was getting knocked into him by Ser Rodrik.

Instead he dutifully sat up and ate as Robb watched him from his side of the room. When he was nearly done, a few bites of roll remaining and licking sausage grease from his fingers, Robb broke the silence.

"What did you and father speak of yesterday?" he asked getting up to search through the mess of items they shared. "You were gone most of the night. I tried to stay up and wait for you, but I fell asleep at some point."

"Sorry," Jon mumbled, remembering how he'd come in to find Robb sitting up in bed, back against the wall, sound asleep. His brother didn't seem to remember how he'd helped him find a more comfortable position before falling into his own bed.

"It had to be important," Robb said, tossing Jon a tunic as he finished off the roll.

Jon nodded, biting his lip as he stood and began to dress. "I—I don't know if I can speak of it, yet," he said, smiling tightly. He glanced up at Robb through his long curls, messy from sleep. "I want to tell you, but Father . . . I need to ask permission."

Frowning Robb stared at him for a moment before realization dawned and his jaw dropped a little. "Did he finally speak of your mother?"

Unable to contain it, Jon nodded his affirmation, a small grin lifting his lips.

Robb smiled back, full and bright. "He told you her name and everything?"

"Yes," Jon said and then paused, eyes dropping to stare at his tunic as he tied it. "He hasn't told anyone else, though. Not yet."

"Mother." Robb breathed after a momentary pause, his smile disappearing along with the excitement from his voice.

"I told him he should tell her," Jon said looking up at Robb. "I don't think it will be right for me to speak of it until he does."

They were silent for a while as Jon dressed, Robb poking at various items on his side of the room. As Jon pulled on his boots, he finally spoke again.

"Is there anything you can tell me?"

Jon looked up, eyes solemn as he took in his brother's nervous form. Robb had always tried to be supportive, to understand and be there for him, especially when they were children. He had been the one to comfort Jon when they learnt what 'bastard' meant. They'd been educated on the subject by Theon, of all people, but much of their life they had been inseparable—as close as twins.

"She's dead."

Robb was to him in seconds, arms wrapping around him and pulling him close. Jon's fingers clenched in the back of his brother's tunic and he gasped, eyes squeezing shut.

"I am sorry, Jon."

* * *

" _He's my brother," Robb ground out, standing before his mother. They were in his tent, camped a short distance from Riverrun._

 _Lady Catelyn stood tall, expression tight and unwavering. "I have suffered his very existence for nearly nineteen years. I have allowed him to live in my home because it was his father's home. But he is not my son and I will not have him disgracing me in my childhood home."_

" _Jon never disgraced you, Mother," Robb responded, his voice taught with emotion, but he kept his volume low. "Father may have, but Jon has never done anything to dishonor our family. He has loved your children and protected us. He has saved my life multiple times on the battlefield."_

" _I will not change my mind." She turned sharply, moving to the front of the tent before pausing. "He can stay with the men or go to another camp. But he is not welcome inside Riverrun."_

 _Jon's fingers clenched in Grey Wind's fur where he was sitting next to the wolf. His brother's wolf turned and bumped his head against his fingers, tongue brushing out to kiss his skin in an attempt at comfort. Ghost pressed tighter against his other side._

" _She has no—" Robb hissed after she had gone, turning to face Jon._

" _It's all right," Jon interrupted him, trying to smile. "I will be fine here or I can go help Lord—"_

" _I don't want you to go anywhere," Robb dropped beside him, hands clenched as he settled next to Grey Wind. "You're my brother—you belong at my side."_

 _Jon had smiled and acquiesced to staying in the camp. He had never entered Riverrun in that life, had never managed to arrange for the truth to come out in a manner that others would believe so Lady Catelyn had never known that he was her nephew and not a stain on her husband's honor._

 _He and Robb had died together in that life, side by side, during the battle for Kings Landing. Perhaps it was wildfire that had killed him or just the crush of stone upon him. Jon would never know for sure._

 _He wasn't fireproof in every life, after all._

* * *

Dinner was, in general, a family affair—plus Theon—with the exception being feast days. Today was no exception, everyone including Rickon was present for the meal; the babe being passed between his mother, father, and elder siblings as they ate.

Jon, though a bastard in the eyes of the world, had always eaten with his family during the evenings except on the occasions his father was visiting his bannermen. When that happened, he had always attempted to eat in the kitchens or his rooms to avoid Lady Stark's gaze.

Halfway through dinner, after handing a squirming Rickon over to Sansa, Lady Stark easily garnered the attention of the room with just a few pointed words. Even the babe stared at her, blue eyes wide as he gummed a piece of carrot.

"It has been decided that at two and ten Robb and Jon are old enough to move out of the nursery rooms and into their own quarters."

"What?" Robb couldn't help but ask, voice cracking on the end of the word, only to snap his jaw shut as his mother turned her eyes to him.

She lifted one eyebrow at him and paused for a long moment before continuing. "You will both be moving into your own rooms," She turned her attention to Jon then. He had to fight the instinct to drop his eyes to his plate. "in the main section of the family wing. Robb of course will take residence in the traditional quarters of the heir. Jon—Jon will take the room across the hall from him." Jon's eyes widened and his chin dropped a little before he shut it. "I expect that you both will take care of your own quarters and not abuse the trust we are affording you."

Jon nodded, hands shaking in his lap a little. He glanced at his father and then back at Lady Stark as his brother spoke his appreciation. Jon turned the last few moments over, sorting through the words in his mind.

Had his father…

There was a moment of silence and Jon was jolted out of his thoughts by an elbow to his side.

"Th-Thank you, Lady Stark," Jon said, voice rough, meeting her eyes fully.

She smiled tightly at him and nodded, before reaching over to pick up her youngest son as he smashed the remains of half-boiled carrot into his sister's hair. The protesting squeals of both children interrupted the moment and prevented Sansa from dwelling on the fact that she didn't get to move out of the room she shared with Arya yet.

That night, Robb and him spent several long hours when they were supposed to be sleeping huddled together beneath the covers of Robb's bed talking. Robb spent much of the time babbling his excitement, but on occasion his nerves showed through. It was then that Jon would remind him that he'd be right across the hall and that they were still brothers and still best friends.

Even Jon was sad to see the change, he remembered the past twelve years of this life, but also the memories of years without Robb close at hand. He wasn't sure that he wanted to let go of this part of his life go.

He lay there for hours, unable to drift off to sleep, listening to Robb's gentle snores. His mind was still whirling with the thought that never before had he been given a room in the family wing—not the true family wing—with all the privileges and amenities thereof.

Lady Stark knew. She had to; it was the only reason Jon could discern that made sense.

She had _smiled_ at him.

* * *

Often Jon found himself wishing his memories of Winterfell as a child from his first life were clearer for him, but time and hundreds of years living as an adult had worn them down to faint pictures and remembered events and feelings. This life was much clearer, memories of details and words that had been said to him readily available to him.

It made him sad on the occasion he stopped to ponder it. While he remembered growing up with his siblings here, he had lost much of his original siblings. Like in all lives, though, he tried to ignore the differentiation. This was his life, the people here were his family. Jon hated to think on how it would become easier as days, weeks, and months passed.

He tried not to dwell on such things anymore.

Now though, he wondered if there were any differences between his two childhoods that had led to the early birth of Ghost. If he knew, perhaps it would provide some insight on the events to come. For it was obvious to him now that this life was going to be far, far different from any he'd lived before.

Jon hoped and prayed that it would be every day.

Since revealing himself to his father, they'd met nearly every night, going over the events of life after life—death after death. Most often they spent the time in his father's solar, but occasionally went elsewhere.

Each life was difficult to speak of, in its own way, but there were a few Jon had skipped over, such as his second life. It wasn't an important one, he'd thought it all just a dream that first time. His death there had been a stupid one. Stupid, but oh so satisfying.

* * *

 _Jon stared at the boy in front of him in the training ring, smirking and belligerently insisting on the use of live steel to the dismay of most on lookers. He had known that his father's men had already sent for the Maester, believing that Jon would end up injured in order to avoid insulting the royal family._

 _He never should have responded to the Prince's taunts, but he couldn't help but dwell on the fact that the boy had ordered his father's death and tortured and belittled Sansa for years. His anger had gotten the better of him._

 _The Prince was a braggart and while trained, not very good with the sword. Jon let the boy believe he had the upper hand before taking the step he'd wanted to since the royal party arrived._

 _It was laughably easy to disarm the boy and shove his sword the royal bastard's neck._

 _It was the last thing he saw as the next moment a sword was shoved through his back by the Hound._

* * *

Jon couldn't help but hope they may be able to avoid the mad, incestuous bastard and the dark fate he'd helped to bring down on the Stark family.

It had been his father who had pointed out one crucial point during a late night spent with the direwolves.

"You mentioned before that in every life the wolf mother was killed by a Stag," Ned said, running fingers through the dark grey fur behind her ears. She leaned into the touch, eyes sliding half shut.

They were in the kennel, the fast-growing pups rough housing, napping, and nursing around them. The mother wolf was nearly healed now as well.

Jon nodded as he smiled down at the pups in front of him. Ghost and Lady were on the other end of a thick rag someone had procured for a toy, tugging away as he held it. "That's right. A few times she was still breathing, once you gave her mercy."

"Perhaps her life here is as much of an omen as her death was in those lives."

It was a beautiful thought and Jon smiled brighter at it. He wanted it to be true more than anything.

Sighing at the memory, Jon pressed the door to his new room open with his shoulder, and smiled at the sight of the space. He did feel a slight tinge of guilt, knowing that in most lives this had been Bran's room eventually. Crossing the room, he dumped his armful of clothes onto the bed. It wasn't the first, a few armfuls had already been placed away carefully. He was surprised at the amount of clothing he had, years into adulthood he could have counted his articles of clothing on two hands—not including his armor—more oft than not.

This room was twice as large as his usual, the fireplace off to the side so that it wasn't visible from the door, with the window overlooking the courtyard. The window was open, letting in light and a slight breeze which offset the warmth of the fire Jon had started earlier.

The furniture was likely the same as it had been before, except for his chest settled next to the bed. He couldn't help but grin at the site of all his belongings in this room. As a child, he'd had more than he thought. Still, it wasn't much, and his newest set of personal belongings were, for the most part, still hidden away behind a lock.

Displaying everything he had received from his birth parents wasn't an option, even within the family wing where only the most loyal servants were allowed—most of whom had sworn specific oaths to the godswood. Displaying a Targaryen marriage cloak, Rhaegar's harp, even the dagger would be too dangerous, especially with curious younger siblings at an age where secrets were hard to keep.

His clothes were quickly sorted into their places, and he grinned old memories of doing the same in other locations. The last time he had near this much clothing was when he met Daenerys in Meereen or the last time he was King in the North.

The last thought left him shuddering, that was a title he did not want to bear in this life.

Rocking back on his heals he breathed deep, the scent of the wood in the fireplace and the summer air filled him with comfort. Something stirred within him, deep, and his eyes flitted to the side, towards the chest his father had carried in for him earlier, smiling and ruffling Jon's hair at his embarrassment when he'd gone to his father for help. While not large, the chest was big enough to be unwieldly and heavy for his two and ten-year-old frame.

It was set next to the bed, close enough for Jon to reach out and touch when his head laid on his pillow if he lay close to the edge. He'd lain a small cloth over the top, bright blue and edged with embroidered detail. Jon had been surprised to find the cloth, a present that Sansa had gifted him a year or so after she first started practicing the art for his name day, not long before she learned what 'bastard' meant.

The stitches were careful, but messy depictions of various things in an early attempt to design scenery. Wolves dancing through a field of flowers. Kneeling next to the chest, Jon smiled as he ran a finger over one of the wolves. He could see small pinprick holes where stitches had been undone, corrected to form a more satisfactory version of the Stark house animal. Picking it up he set it upon his bed carefully, smiling as he did so.

He unwound the chain from around his neck that held the key. The key was only part of the lock, the chest itself held hidden mechanisms reminiscent of a puzzle box that reset when locked.

Once he paused and glanced over his shoulder, making sure the door was locked and barred. Seeing that it was Jon reached into the chest and moved the folded marriage cloak aside, adjusted the wrapping around the harp, and then carefully using both hands he pulled the dragon egg from its wrappings.

He shivered at the sensation of the warm, hard, scaled shell against his hand and then winced as he cut a finger on one particularly sharp detail. Standing Jon made his way to the fireplace, driven by the tugging in his mind and memories of how his Aunt birthed her dragons.

It had been a bit awkward, telling his father about the egg—convincing him that it wasn't a fossil or decorated stone but that a viable baby dragon was sleeping within the hard shell, nearly ready to awaken. Lord Stark had thought on it for several days before, just yesterday, telling Jon not to prevent the dragon's birth.

Jon had to grin at the memory his father solemnly advising him that: "A loyal dragon would be a boon when the long night came".

He'd promised in return, "They will be."

While Jon wasn't entirely sure what would be required or how long it would take, he had no doubt it would be nowhere near as much as what his Daenerys did to birth her dragons. She had used fire and blood, sacrificed lives to bring them to life, but she had hatched three dragons—only one of which truly bonded to her in the way he'd bonded to Ghost.

A theory had been developing in his mind recently, knowing that Rhaegar had to have given him the egg, presented it to his mother before he was even born. If he'd been gifted one than perhaps Aegon and Rhaenys had as well. If so than the dim bond Aegon and he had managed with the dragon's they'd paired with made more sense—it'd been warring with pre-existing bonds.

He smoothed a finger over a shiny white scale as he settled in front of the hearth. He gently set the egg down and then, being careful not to smear blood on his shirt, he rolled his sleeves up, eyes drifting up to the crackling fire.

Jon gently picked the egg back up and held it out into the flames before settling it into the middle, a spot he'd carefully designed to make a nest of fire for the egg. Flames licked at his fingers and arms in gentle, warm kisses. In this life, he was at least highly fire resistant. Drawing back he smiled and the wave of what he could only describe as contentment that swirled through him.

It was completely opposite of the giddy excitement that was coming from Ghost.

He blinked as a loud knock sounded at his door.

"Jon?" Arya asked, jiggling the knob.

"One minute," he called and glanced around as he carefully pulled his shirt sleeves down his arms. Crossing to the bed he quickly shut the chest and the moved back to unbar the door. As he walked, he stuck his cut finger into his mouth for a moment, luckily it had nearly finished bleeding.

"Jon!" Arya wined impatient, just before he reached it.

"Ayra," Jon mimicked her as he opened it and feigned hurt when she slapped his arm. He grinned at her, smile wide as she tried to look around him. He raised an eyebrow, "Arya?"

Her eyes shot back up to his and she blinked. "Oh!" She started, excitement filling her eyes. "Father says we can spend some time with the pups right now and soon they may be able to come in the castle with us! They are wee-weaning them!" She grabbed his hand and turned, tugging to lead him out of the room. "We only have until dinner!"

"Whoa!" Jon laughed, grabbing her shoulder with his other hand to stop her. "Give me a moment, please, Arya." He pulled away and headed back into his room.

Huffing out a sigh and crossing her arms, Arya watched as he locked the chest and placed the key around his neck again.

"What's that?"

"That," Jon said as he reached her, smiling, "is private."

"Robb doesn't have a chest that locks in his room," she frowns, glancing around him at it.

"Perhaps not yet," Jon chewed his lip, "but then his heirlooms are still father's for the most part."

Her eyes widened, "Your mother?"

He nodded watching as she bit her lip, curiosity bubbling up in her grey eyes. "I will show you," he said before she could drum up the courage to ask. "One day. But not yet," he paused watching her lips twist into a pout. "Promise me you won't try and open it or ask anyone else to."

The pout deepened and she wrinkled her nose.

"Promise me, please."

"Fine, I promise," she grumbled, crossing her arms.

"Do I have to drag you in front of the Heart Tree?"

"No!" Arya scowled up at him. "I said I promise!"

"All right, all right," Jon held up his hands. "Now, you said something about the pups?"

Her eyes lit up again and she grabbed his hand again, dragging him from the room. "Hurry! We only have a couple hours!"

Jon smiled as he let her pull him along, ignoring the frowns, looks, and exclamations of several servants and guards as they ran through the corridors.

* * *

 _Jon," Sansa murmured, coming to stand next to him._

 _The wind was blowing cold, the air chilled enough to freeze moisture on his beard. They were staring out across fields towards where the woods used to stand in the distance. Much of it had been cleared in the last year, felled to make room for the tent city, for buildings to be built, and for walls and a moat to be dug. Winterfell had turned into a refuge for the north as many of the holdings had. A place where civilians toiled to support the armies that worked to defend them and find the White Walkers amid the hordes of dead._

 _He turned his gaze to her, watching the green glow of the wildfire in the distance from the moats the alchemists manned dance shadows across her face._

 _She smiled at him softly, a small quirk of her lips as her shoulder brushed against his. "We received a letter from White Harbor."_

" _When am I expected?"_

" _They wish to leave in two day's time." Sansa frowned, eyes trailing over their people. "Is Rhaegal well enough?"_

" _Aye," Jon nodded, remembering how his dragon had been pierced in the side during the battle at Last Hearth a month previously. They'd saved the keep but half the civilians camped in the surroundings had perished when a wildfire moat had failed, dissipating without an alchemist tending it. "What supplies are they bringing?"_

" _Grain from the Reach." Sansa crossed her arms, shivering. "Soldiers from Essos and more from Dorne. Seeds rumored to grow well in colder climates and more glass."_

" _Do we have enough room?" Jon frowned, eyeing the area._

" _We've cleared some more fields, using the limited daylight to dig out more trenches to the east."_

" _You've done well," Jon met her eyes. "Your father and mother would be proud."_

" _We've done well," she corrected him, lifting her chin. "You're the one fighting, I'm just—"_

" _Keeping the people fed and giving them hope. A true Queen."_

" _I wouldn't be anywhere without you, my King."_

* * *

Ghost ran from where he'd been following at Jon's heels suddenly, speeding across the courtyard as fast as his small legs could take him. Looking up, he stared after the pup before following at a quick pace.

"Sit!" A squealed exclamation met his ears even before he located his companion. The direwolf pup promptly plopped his rear down at the command, tail swinging in the dirt, full attention on the surprised red head in front of him.

Sansa had an incredulous look on her face as she stared down at Ghost; Lady obediently sat at her heels, staring up at her as well. A second later a smile lit up her face and she knelt, tearing a piece of meat out of the cloth she held and then splitting it in two to share between the two pups. Ghost took it and stepped back a pace, chewing on the treat. Reaching out, Sansa ran a hand over his small head and scratched gently behind his ears.

Jon came to a stop a few feet behind Ghost, smiling a little at the scene afore him. Sansa wasn't quite as cold to him yet as she had gotten as she aged. She was still generally standoffish, following in her mother's footsteps and referred to him as 'half-brother' at best, but she wasn't yet at the age where the need to be a lady and only associate with those deemed appropriate for her status had become her obsession.

"Have you been training him, too?" Sansa looked up at him, blue eyes sparkling.

As soon as they'd been given leave to spend time with the direwolf pups away from their mother, Sansa had been working with little Lady to give her the best manners an animal could develop.

Jon hadn't needed to work with Ghost, they had a bond developed over many lives. He was more concerned over making sure the pup grew up hale and strong at his side.

"A little," he said unable to explain the truth, and knelt to greet Lady when she sidled up and placed a paw on his shin, begging for attention. They were bigger than normal puppies would be at this age and twice as rambunctious, even little Lady for all her charm and overall calm demeanor.

"You would think he would be scary," Sansa mused, giggling a little as Ghost tried to balance on his hind legs to kiss her nose only to fall backwards. "With his red eyes, I mean."

"He's just a pup," Jon ran a hand over Ghost's back as he returned to Jon, embarrassed, "like Lady."

Sansa nodded as she tore a piece of meat off and held it out to Jon to take and then tore off another piece. She managed to coax Ghost back over to her, smiling when he lathed her fingers with happy kisses after. Jon held the one in his hand out to Lady who took the treat happily.

"Does he have any trouble seeing?"

He shook his head. "Not that I can tell. Perhaps, but he gets by just fine so far."

"Good," she said and then looked up at Jon. "Arya says father spoke to you about—about your mother."

Glancing up at her, he paused at her curious expression trying to decide how to handle this. "He did."

"Mother doesn't seem to dislike you as much as before." Sansa bit her lip and dropped her gaze to Ghost again. "I think she is upset with father, though."

Reaching out, Jon tugged gently at Ghosts short tail. The pup whirled, yipping and darting over to Jon's lap, trying to catch his fingers as Lady jumped after her brother.

"I think they fought about it."

"Will you tell me?" Sansa asked quietly a few minutes later, picking blades of grass apart as the pups had started to roll around together, playing in the patch of grass between them.

"Yes," Jon decided then, "when I tell Arya."

She smiled at him, opening her mouth to speak but was interrupted by a commotion far across the courtyard. They turned to look, both frowning when they saw a good-sized group of riders enter the castle yard, mostly men but there were a few women as well. Jon recognized some of the house sigils on display, mostly small vassal houses and then he caught sight of Lord Manderly, much younger than he could remember seeing him before.

"I didn't know we were having visitors!" Sansa stood quickly and Jon followed suit. "Who do you think they are?" She asked him, brushing grass off her dress, an embarrassed blush rising high on her cheeks.

"Lord Manderly," Jon told her quietly, wondering if they should head over to the group. Ghost and Lady had paused their play and were staring across the yard as the men dismounted and unprepared stable boys and servants went to assist. "And some of his vassals it looks like."

"I wonder why they would come unannounced?"

A few minutes passed and their father and Lady Stark rushed to greet the visitors, speaking with them for a few minutes before the new arrivals were ushered into the keep, led by Lord Stark.

"I wonder why they are here." Sansa wrung her hands, brow furrowed.

"I don't know," Jon murmured glancing down at Ghost. He didn't know, but he could make some educated guesses.

Over the last few weeks, during his discussions with father, coastal defenses and trade had been much-discussed topics. While they hadn't dominated any discussions, they had been brought up nearly every night.

Lack of a strong Northern fleet had been one issue that plagued many of the lives he'd lived, allowing for issues with the Ironborn and often reliance on neighbors for assistance when the Long Night came. If Lord Stark was increasing the North's naval power, it could only be a good thing. Jon hoped it wouldn't cause issues with the South though.

"Lady Sansa!" The voice of Septa Mordane startled them both, and they turned. Sansa's expression morphed into horrified realization; she was late for her lessons. "Look at your dress!" The Septa tutted at her and then shot a glare at Jon. "This is highly unbecoming of a lady and not to mention the company you are—"

"Septa Mordane," Lady Stark's voice was cool as ice as she interrupted the elder woman. "I believe Sansa is late for her lessons, is she not?"

"Yes," the Septa straightened her back and nodded, "that is why—"

"Jon," Lady Stark turned to him, "would you take Lady along with Ghost to the kennel, please?"

He nodded, otherwise still. "Of course, Lady Stark."

"And when you are done find Robb and clean up. Lord Stark wishes for Robb and you to sit in on his meeting with the Lords in an hour."

"I will, my lady."

She pursed her lips and raised an eyebrow at the Septa who barely waited for Sansa to hand an unhappy Lady to Jon before hurrying her off. Once they had stepped away she glanced him over for a moment before turning herself and heading back to the keep.

Jon looked down at Lady and then to Ghost who stared back up at him with knowing red eyes.

* * *

Robb, as it turned out, had heard from some servant or another and was in the midst of scooting Grey Wind into the kennel with his mother and Nymeria—Summer and Rickon's unnamed pup, Shaggydog, must have been spending time in the nursery—when Jon arrived. The pups weren't exactly happy at being left behind, but upon seeing his siblings Grey Wind promptly tackled Ghost before licking Lady's nose.

"Both of us?" Robb asked surprised as they headed to clean up.

"That is what Lady Stark said," Jon acknowledged, the _I don't question your mother_ clear in his tone and words. He glanced at his brother out of the corner of his eye, trying to gage his reaction.

Robb grinned at him then. "I'm glad. I have been trying to convince father to let you rejoin my lessons for ages."

"You have?" Jon had never known.

"Of course!" Robb exclaimed, stopping him with a hand on his arm. "I told you before, many times, that when I am Lord of Winterfell I want you at my side to aid me, brother. That is," he smiled in thought, "if Father doesn't gift you a hold of your own one day."

"I doubt he would do that," Jon said, shaking his head.

"It's been done before; many families have come into existence as cadet branches from bastard lines," Robb pointed out. It was true, but Jon knew that had never been his father's plan for him; although with all the changes he was starting to wonder what new plans were arising.

And he wasn't a bastard, not truly.

Something must have shown on his face, Jon wasn't sure what or how exactly Robb interpreted it, but his brother caught him in a hug.

"Doesn't matter what others may say, you'll always be welcome here. You are family. My brother."

Jon pulled back, smiling a little which Robb returned with a bright smile of his own.

"We should hurry," he said then, nodding down the hall. "Your mother said for us to be there within an hour."

* * *

When they arrived at the room that had been setup for the meeting, a smaller dining room off the great hall, the table was covered in food for the midday meal and the lords and ladies—eight in total—were getting situated. Their father was standing near the head of the table, two unoccupied chairs to the right of him, speaking with Lord Manderly.

Robb and Jon paused a few feet into the room; Jon standing a step behind Robb at his shoulder. It only took a minute for Lord Manderly to notice them.

"Ah!" The Lord of White Harbor grinned widely. "You must be young Lord Robb!" he exclaimed.

Ned looked up, glancing over his shoulder towards them and smiled, before nodding at his bannerman. He motioned them forward, settling a hand on Robb's shoulder a moment later. "This is my eldest son, and heir, Robb." He paused and looked at Jon who stepped forward a moment later. "And my son Jon."

Lord Manderly's smile barely twitched as he looked between the two boys. "They've grown a lot since I last saw them. Just babes you were! You must be running your training master ragged to keep up with such strong boys as you."

"We try, my lord," Robb answered, glancing at his father after he spoke.

The other lords greeted them then, mostly focusing on Robb, which was understandable. Jon, as a bastard, was an unusual presence to be had and though allotted respect as Lord Stark's son was not his heir nor his trueborn son. Northerners were, in general, more lax in treatment of bastards in comparison to most places south of the neck, but that was not to say they were generally raised among the trueborn children such as Jon had been. Usually they were fostered out after a certain age.

It had upset Lady Stark when Ned had refused to even consider it. Even when Jon had asked at the age of eight if perhaps he could be fostered somewhere; his father had refused and told him never to ask again.

None of the lords said anything, even the one that Jon was sat beside did not let any discomfort he may have show.

As the meal got underway the discussion began and Jon found that his earlier assumptions had been, for the most part, accurate. His father started out the talk with asking each of the men, and women, in the room the status of their ships, business, and projected trade in the coming years—specifically requesting both the best case and worst case scenarios along with the middling. Lord Stark even brought Robb and Jon into the conversation a few times, requesting they recite numbers or details they had learned in their lessons.

It wasn't until near an hour into the discussion as the food on the table was near gone and bellies were full that things turned to negotiating possible increases in ship building, farming, trade, and several other subjects including increasing the number of men at arms and training more small folk to form militia should the need arise.

"My lord," one of the men put in after a while, "I'm not sure it would be feasible or necessary to increase the farmland or number of glass gardens on my land to quite that extent."

"You have fertile land that is currently unused, do you not?" Ned asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Aye," he nodded, "but the amount of work put in would not justify the amount of trade the results would sow."

"Jon," Lord Stark started after a short pause, his stare having silenced the Lord. Jon looked up at his father. "When was the last winter to go on for more than ten years?"

"Over a thousand years ago, my lord," Jon answered without hesitation before pausing in thought and then reciting the years and exact length.

"How long was our last winter, Robb?"

Robb glanced at his father and answered just as promptly, providing the date of the beginning and end along with the length. "It was the shortest on record."

"Aye, for at least three thousand years it was." Ned nodded and turned his gaze back to the Lords. "This summer is, perhaps, past the halfway point, but as yet the end is not in sight. The last time there was such a short winter, followed by a summer this long it was followed by a winter that lasted a generation."

Jon shivered, he'd experienced that winter first hand. It had lasted near ten years in every life he'd lived. It had been horrible, even in the lives they'd had support from Essos and other lands. The easier winters were always those when the White Walkers had died quickly—Jon hadn't experienced many of those.

"You wish for us to plan for a twenty-year winter," Lord Manderly stated the thoughts of everyone in the room aloud, understanding written on his face.

"My maester confirmed the possibility of my theories after exchanging ravens with some colleagues at the Citadel," Ned confirmed, face solemn. "I would rather be wrong, but we cannot afford not to prepare if I am right."

"Excess stores can be traded or given away," one of the ladies said after a moment. "I would prefer not to have to watch people starve while knowing that it could have been prevented. I will prepare my land and people."

A chorus of agreement followed her statement, only a couple of the men looking uncomfortable with having to expend the resources requested. Negotiations had been made however, to help ease the burden, especially in regards to the increase in ships and men-at-arms.

Hours later, Lord Stark excused Robb, Jon, and the vassals, giving them leave to settle into their quarters until the feast that evening. Jon and Robb were the last to leave and as the door shut behind him, Jon couldn't help but hear Lord Manderly's grim, concerned voice ask his father a question.

"I understand the ships and farms, my lord, but the increase in men . . . what war do you see us fighting?"

* * *

 _Rivers were different than the sea, but no less beautiful. On a river, though, you could see land on both sides, gorgeous scenery and the occasional sight of people. He'd never been on a boat simply to enjoy the scenery before, it surprised Jon about how peaceful it made him._

" _It will get old, eventually," his brother's voice promised as the blue haired, older boy sidled up next to him, "but it will always be lovely."_

" _I don't know about that," Jon turned to look at Aegon, taking in his profile and trying to find the features they shared. His half-brother had taken after their father far more than he had, though they both shared a similar build. Jon looked more Stark than anything, a fact that had kept him safe growing up._

 _Aegon shrugged. "I guess it may take a while," he paused and raised an eyebrow. "Found your sea-legs yet, brother?"_

 _Wincing Jon felt his stomach turn a little. He'd been on a boat near half a year now between leaving Westeros and finding Aegon. "As much as Ghost has." The poor wolf was curled up nearby in a heap, ears flat. At least Ghost wasn't throwing up anymore. The open ocean and the river rapids were different enough that it had taken him more time to get used to them as well._

 _Aegon grinned wider, glancing at the wolf. "At least he can hold his dinner now."_

 _Ghost's eyes slit open and he stared, red eyes glaring in their direction. He didn't move though, unwilling or too ill to get up._

" _Aye," Jon said. "At least there's that." He turned back to watch the shoreline, hands gripping the rail, listening as the crew went about their business._

" _I'm glad you found me," Aegon said softly, leaning next to him, bumping their shoulders together. "I know it may not have seemed that way, especially at first—"_

" _It's a hard story to believe," Jon said softly, eyes dropping to watch the waves shifting around the boat. The water was relatively clear and he could see a few large fish traveling near the ship._

" _But not out of the realm of possibilities." Aegon settled his elbows on the railing and leaned over a bit to watch the waves as well. "They say Daenys the Dreamer saw the doom of Valyria, which led our family to move to Dragonstone and survive the fall. And she is not the only one," he paused, leaning his cheek on one arm to look over at Jon. "And then your Stark blood . . . the connection you have with Ghost."_

 _Jon had used the warging ability to help convince them of his 'seer' abilities. The abilities he'd claimed had let him to his brother. It was always a risk, Jon Connington was always a wild card in how he would react to Jon and his claims. Thus far in this life the man while not fully trusting him he had accepted him into the crew without too much issue._

" _I'm just glad you believed me," Jon replied honestly, glancing over at his brother. "I don't know where I would have gone . . . what I would have done if you hadn't."_

" _Would you have gone to our aunt and uncle?" Aegon asked._

 _Jon shook his head. "I don't think so. At least . . . I would have waited some time. Viserys—Viserys I believe would kill me . : . and you if he knew of us. He is—He is truly his father's son."_

" _And Daenerys?"_

" _Daenerys has the potential to be a true Queen," Jon said after a moment's thought. "A conqueror and a ruler loved by her people. But we should approach her carefully, I think. But I do believe she craves the love of family deep down." He paused for a moment before murmuring, "The dragon—"_

 _Aegon smiled, straightening, and meeting Jon's eyes as he nodded. "The dragon must have three heads."_

* * *

There was a feast at Winterfell generally every few moons, sometimes more often, ranging from small family and household gatherings to celebrate name days to larger feasts when hosting Lord Stark's bannermen. It didn't take Jon long to get ready, he'd already cleaned up earlier for meeting with Lord Manderly and his vassals, so he took the time to work on some of the lessons Maester Luwin had set for him, sitting in front of the fire in his room.

His mind wandered after a bit, not being able to focus on history he already knew and his gaze drifted to the flames dancing in the hearth. The dragon egg was still nestled securely between burning logs that Jon stoked multiple times a day with new logs, whenever the fire petered out. It surprised him, thusly, when not long before dinner a knock sounded from his door.

"Come in," Jon called, setting the pile of papers on the floor as he looked towards the door. He was expecting Robb or maybe Arya. He started, eyebrows raising, and stood. "Lady Stark." His fingers pulled at the edge of his tunic.

"Jon," she said, eyes taking in the details of his room before nodding satisfied at the state of it. "May I come in? I wish to speak with you for a few minutes."

"Of course." He nodded quickly, biting his lip.

She stepped in and closed the door behind before turning to face him fully. For a few long moments, she just watched him silently, looking him over, scrutinizing his face.

Finally, she spoke, "For twelve years I have hated you and what I believed you were representative of."

Jon's jaw clenched and his fingers twitched, wanting to follow suit but he forced them to remain open and relaxed.

"I now know that it was all based on a lie." She stepped closer to him and he dropped his gaze. "I wish I could be sorry for how I treated you, but I cannot be. I did not know the truth of things. Your . . . uncle kept it secret from us both." He heard her sigh, dress and feet shifting in the otherwise silent room. "So I cannot be sorry as I treated you how I would have treated any bastard child a husband of mine fathered."

He felt a finger on his chin pushing it up and lifted his gaze to meet Tully-blue eyes—eyes so like Robb and Sansa's. "If I had known though . . ." She sighed and dropped her hand. "A nephew or niece, trueborn or bastard is different. Things would have been different had I known, at least in private."

"I'm not a threat to Robb," Jon murmured, "I never was. It doesn't matter who my father is."

A sad smile quirked the edges of Lady Stark's lips, ever so slightly. "I know," she said. "I have known that from the moment you first crawled. You were motivated to do so to reach Robb, to comfort him." She looked away, out the open window. "I just couldn't . . . I cannot change the past, but I can change what will happen from here on." Her face tightened, emotion hiding behind a mask. "That being said, no matter what we would like there are some things that cannot be changed at this time."

"I understand," Jon said, smiling sadly. He did, behaviors couldn't change overnight even if they weren't ingrained. Questions would arise that would have to be explained away to the household, bannermen, to everyone. "It would be too dangerous for the family."

"For _you_ ," Lady Stark corrected, "most especially. But yes, for the whole of the family. Your uncle has sacrificed a lot to keep you safe. We will all continue to do so for as long as necessary."

"Thank you, Lady Stark," Jon paused for a moment before continuing, unable to hold in his curiosity. His father hadn't shared his plans with him regarding this. "How will the changes towards—towards me be explained?"

She looked away from him, expression tight and Jon thought he saw a flash of guilt. "Lord Stark and I will handle any questions as they arise. Do not worry yourself."

He nodded and watched as she turned to go.

"And Jon?" She called softly before opening the door. "While I hope you may one day be able to call me aunt—Lady Catelyn will be fine in private from now on."

* * *

" _Uncle Jon!" A squeal of excitement and the pounding of feet brought a smile to his face as he turned from his horse, adjusting his grip on the reins as he did so._

" _Uncle Jon!" Rhaego stared up at him, coming to a stop and holding a wooden practice sword in front of him. The boy was perhaps four years old, growing bigger and more active every day. He drove his mother crazy with all the energy he had._

 _Jon grinned at the boy. They were cousins in truth, but Daenerys has insisted on Rhaego calling Jon 'uncle' and Jon call her 'sister' when he must, stating it was entirely too awkward to have a nephew that was older than her by even a few months._

" _I challenge you!" the little boy cried in Dothraki, the tongue of his father._

" _Oh dear!" Jon said, holding his free hand up. "I don't suppose you have a weapon I could borrow, my dear nephew?"_

 _The little boy's nose scrunched up. "You have a sword, Uncle Jon!"_

" _Aye," Jon nodded solemnly, "but my sword is no match for yours. It would hardly be a fair fight. You'd best me in an instant!"_

 _The boy turned, eyeing his nanny who'd followed him over, trying to hide a grin and failing._

" _Kirgi! We need another sword!"_

* * *

That night, after most the feasting was over, when Lady Catelyn bid him and Robb they scooped up their younger siblings—Jon carrying a clinging, bleary eyed Arya on his back and Robb scooping up Bran before he could nod off into the remains of dinner and desert on his plate—and headed to bed, Sansa trailing a little put out behind them. She had begun dancing lessons and hoped to take part in celebrations tonight, but the visiting Lords and Ladies had not brought their children or families, traveling light to speak with other Houses. Lord Manderly had stopped at Winterfell on the way to meet with Houses on the western coast and take stock of the territory for Lord Stark.

Jon caught Robb in the corridor after handing his sister off to her nanny, snagging his elbow before his brother could open the door to his room.

Robb raised a sleepy eyebrow in question.

"I promised to tell you of my mother," Jon managed to get out after a moment, voice hushed and rough.

Surprise filtered across Robb's face. "Aye, you did."

"I would like to do so tonight."

"Let me get ready for bed," Robb said, glancing towards his door. "Once you are ready we can meet in my room."

Jon shook his head. "I have something to show you."

"All right," Robb nodded after a moment, "your room then."

Less than ten minutes later, Robb knocked on his door, opening it seconds later and slipping into the room. He was dressed for bed, feet bare.

"Bar the door, please," Jon called over his shoulder from where he sat on the floor near the hearth. He glanced over his shoulder, watching to confirm that his brother did so and then crossed the room to sit next to him, eyeing the small chest Jon had dragged over and unlocked earlier.

Jon waited for a moment before clearing his throat. "What I am about to speak of . . . you cannot tell a soul," he said quietly, imploring his brother with as much emotion as he could manage. "Not without permission. Only a handful of people know what I am about to tell you. It is a secret that could mean death should it reach the wrong ears."

Robb frowned, eyes trailing up from where he'd been watching Jon's fingers play across the wood nervously. "Your mother identity is secret truly that dangerous?"

"Yes," he nodded. "It is . . ." he wrinkled his nose, trying to come up with the words, "Treasonous." Jon leaned forward, meeting Robb's confused gaze. "I need you to promise, Robb," Jon continued. "I this comes to be known by the wrong person then at the very least mine and most certainly father's life will be forfeit."

"I would never do anything to hurt you, brother," Robb said, freckles standing out against pale skin in the firelight.

"Promise me, please," Jon grasped his forearm and Robb turned his arm to grasp Jon's in turn.

"I promise," Robb said finally, eyes flitting over Jon's features. "I will not speak of it with anyone that you or father have not given me leave to. I swear it on the Old Gods and the New."

Jon searched his face and nodded, smiled, and spoke his voice wavering. "I'm not your brother, not by birth."

"What?" Robb jerked back, surprise and confusion warring on his face.

Jon dropped his gaze, steeling himself, and curled fingers around the lid of the chest before slowly opening it.

"It's what father told me," he settled the lid and reached into the chest. "I'm not his son." Jon pulled aside the brown fabric to reveal the contents of the chest. "My mother was your Aunt Lyanna," his voice stumbled over the words as he continued, fingers trembling as he picked up the marriage cloak. He unfolded it to reveal the red dragon, stark against a field of black. "My fa—sire was Rhaegar Targaryen."

Jon stared at the cloak, fingers trailing over the tail of the dragon, giving Robb time to process everything. Robb, just like he, had grown up in the aftermath of the rebellion, listening to the stories told by the victors. The tales of mad Targaryens, a stolen and raped wolf maid, and history of a dynasty being slowly twisted. If the maester's hadn't such excellent records, the realm would have been believing that all Targaryen's from Aegon the Conqueror to Aegon VI, but a babe moons old, had been monsters.

"You—You're a Targaryen?" Robb asked, reaching out to tentatively touch the edge of the cloak. His eyebrows shot up and he stared at Jon. "You're the ri—"

"No." Jon shook his head. "By birth I would be Jon—Jaehaerys—Targaryen per the letters, anyway." He moved the edge of the cloak aside to snatch up the leather-bound papers and then looked to Robb, eyes imploring, "But please don't call me that. I'm Jon. To take the Targaryen name would be a death sentence. Maybe someday, but," he smiled sadly, "for now I'm a Snow."

"You may use the name Snow, but you're a Stark more than a Targaryen," Robb said after a moment taking the papers from Jon and setting them aside. "They married then?"

"On the Isle of Faces."

"What about Princess . . . oh," Robb paused. "The Targaryen's used to practice polygamy."

Jon nodded. "Apparently, it was also part of a larger plan to overthrow the Mad King that . . . fell apart on my—on Rhaegar." There was documentation of the marriage there along with other important documents, including information on the funds set aside with the Iron Bank as a bride price to the Stark's. That had surprised Jon when he found it and he was still trying to decide how to bring it to his father's attention.

"So," Robb said after a few minutes of silence where Jon had slowly uncovered other items from within the chest, "you're my cousin then."

"Yes." Jon bit his lip, glancing up at Robb from behind a tangle of dark curls.

Robb stared at him for a moment before moving, scooting close and grabbing him in a tight hug. Wrapping his arms around Jon's shoulders he spoke directly into his ear, "It doesn't matter who your father was or what name you choose to carry. You are my brother. Nothing will ever change that."

Jon buried his face in his brother's neck and grasped the back of Robb's thin night shirt tightly. Something uncurled within him and his eyes slammed shut around a flood of moisture, trying to keep it at bay, but he couldn't and he finally let go allowing the tears and pent up emotions to flow as he buried himself into his brother's arms.

Later, when tears had mostly dried and they'd spent some time marveling over the Valyrian dagger Rhaegar and gifted Lyanna, Jon bit his lip and glanced towards the fire before turning back to Robb, a little nervous but also excited.

"Do you want to see a dragon egg?" he asked and watched as the red head's eyes lit up and brows raised.

That night Jon fell asleep, his shoulder pressed against Robb's, listening to the light snores of his brother sleeping as he drifted. He dreamt of flying that night, showing Robb the landscape of the North from the back of a white dragon while in the distance other dragon's whirled and swooped across the rising sun.

* * *

The first night the direwolf pups were allowed to sleep within the castle was a quiet one. The weather was warm and Jon kept the window open so that the summer breeze could come in to offset the warmth from the glowing fire. He stoked it just after coming up with Ghost, playing a short game of fetch with a piece of kindling, smiling as Ghost retrieved it again and again until finally, worn out, the pup dropped into a pile of furs Jon had setup near the bed.

Jon found he couldn't sleep that night, not due to the warmth, but due to a maelstrom of thoughts curling through his mind. Nothing concrete, just fleeting snatches and tidbits making him restless without any sort of clear cause.

As he laid there, staring at the shadows cast on the wall by the flames flickering in the hearth, something stirred within him and instinctively he sat up, casting his gaze around the room. It took but a moment to focus in on the fire and the dragon egg within. The flames had died down during the past few hours, embers and small flickers shooting up on occasion for mere seconds before calming.

Blinking, he shoved the furs back from his feet and shuffled out of the bed his bare feet slapping lightly against the floor. As he grew closer the feeling intensified and he knelt in front of the hearth, staring into the at the egg.

He barely spared Ghost a glance as the usually silent direwolf whined behind him, paws padding closer until a cold nose brushed against his elbow. Jon reached back and ran a hand over his head, scratching behind his ears before leaning forward. He reached out, into the sputtering flames and gently picked up the dragon egg, holding it into the air, staring at it.

It was twitching, movement evident within the suddenly brittle shell. Before his eyes a tiny indent appeared, pressing outward, cracks spreading. The formerly bright sheen of the egg's blue on white iridescence seemed dull.

Settling back on his heels, kneeling, Jon settled the egg after a while into his lap. It had cooled enough that it didn't burn the cloth of the sleeping clothes he'd worn to bed. Carefully, he pulled a piece of shell away where the indent had peaked and smiled as it revealed a tiny nostril, shiny wet and white with dark accents. As he picked another piece away the little dragon bumped its muzzle against his finger and he shivered along with Ghost who was pressed against his side.

Ghost's presence increased, welcoming, as the dull feeling of another mind sharing their space roared to life. As Jon worked to help free the little creature from its shell, a feeling of completeness unfurled within him, happiness bubbling between the three of them.

Wiggling his entire little body with excitement, Ghost settled his head on the crook of Jon's elbow to watch moments before the little dragon found its strength and the egg shattered, falling in a rain of debris across Jon's lap and the floor as it pressed its limbs outwards.

Adjusting his grip, Jon carefully set it onto his lap, watching as it teetered and stumbled, his hands at the ready to steady the newborn if need be. Wings flapped and flopped against him, still slightly damp and it squawked, voice coming out in more of a hiss.

Smiling, Jon helped it right itself and balance on his knee.

It stared up at Jon, meeting his eyes with pale brown-red orbs that he knew would likely darken and change to the red-gold of its cousins. It leaned its neck up and squawked again, this time emitting a tiny sound, pale comparison to the roar Rhaegal called out in Jon's memories.

"Hello," Jon said and held his hand out, smile widening further as the little white and blue dragon bumped its head against his fingers. "Sorry it took so long to meet you." After a moment, he dropped his hand to his lap and picked at a piece of shell that was stuck to his pants, watching as the dragon tried to flare its wings out.

Ghost moved as he dropped his arm, taking the opportunity to greet his new companion, squirreling into Jon's lap, front paws pressed an inch from the dragon's claws. He pressed his muzzle against the dragons who pressed back for a few scant seconds before losing its balance.

Jon laughed as the dragon let out another noise and tumbled backwards, out of Jon's lap and onto the hearth behind it. He settled a hand onto Ghosts back, running fingers through the thick puppy fur as the pup clamored fully onto his lap to get a better look at the newborn.

Eyes crinkling Jon smiled, unable to smother the giggles tumbling out of him at the pairs antics.

For the first time in a long time, Jon felt truly at home.


	2. Interlude: Ned I

Interlude: Ned I

* * *

Ned couldn't contain the laugh that rumbled out of him as he watched his two sons, both intent on their prey, with their bows drawn tumble to the ground. Their arrows went wide and the two rambunctious direwolves that had knocked into their knees took off after the young buck that scattered at the raucous.

"Ghost!"

"Grey Wind!"

Beside him Storm came to a stop, her head brushing against his elbow as she chuffed. They exchanged a look and after a moment she paced over to a rock and lay down next to it. He followed a moment later, watching as Jon and Robb righted themselves and jogged to retrieve the arrows. They had been hunting all day, roaming the Wolfswood after venison and checking rabbit traps some of the men had set the day before.

"Do you think they realize they are nowhere near big enough to take it down?" he asked quietly, hand running through Storm's thick fur. She leaned her head against his knee, ears quirking at the distant sound of Grey Wolf's yips and his son's curses. A puff of warm air heated his shin as she shut her eyes. "I thought not."

A laugh caught his attention and he looked up, watching as Robb and Jon wrestled, their bows and quivers, arrows spilling out, scattered around them. It was good to watch them enjoy themselves; to see Jon, especially, just _playing_. Since the boy had gained memories of a hundred lives moons ago his behavior had ranged from that of a full-grown man to the two and ten he'd been physically. Jon's tendencies toward melancholy and brooding had increased tenfold to the point that Ned's lady wife had even pointed it out to him just weeks after the change.

While Catelyn may not have been fond of the boy, she had always watched him analyzing his behaviors to protect her own children. She had long taken the tale of bastards being lustful, envious creatures to heart and tended to try and fit Jon into a box that was wholly inaccurate to most—and especially him.

It was the blunt difference between Jon's behavior and the dark shadows that had suddenly appeared in his eyes—shadows that should only belong to a tortured soul who'd seen far too much death, destruction, and lost too much—that had helped Ned to take his adoptive son seriously when he had come to him. In as much as the boy's words had finalized his belief, his demeanor had shaken Ned to the core.

So, Ned had listened and then taken to checking the details and only to find in more cases than not they matched up and those that didn't could be explained away by lack of a full story or the passage of time. In the end, he couldn't help but to believe Jon, to believe or risk the dark futures that his son described.

A shadow crossed over him and Ned glanced up, his smile faltering for a second as the little white and blue dragon whirled overhead, circling over him before swooping towards the boys brushing the grass off their breaches and tunics. From her looks, if he hadn't seen her attempts to cook scraps of meat, Ned would believe her to be an ice dragon of legend.

She was all fire though, even with her looks and despite her name; 'Winter', his son had declared her when he had brought her to him hidden in a basket. She was the size of a small cat now, but he knew that she'd grow too large for a barn one day. Her presence was a reality that Ned was finding it difficult to plan for, more so than the other issues that had been brought up among his long talks with Jon.

Ned wouldn't deny Jon her though, not with seeing how much she had lifted his spirits and not knowing how quintessential she may one day be in the battle against the Others. A dragon firmly on the side of the North would be a boon when the wights came and if other wars had to be fought.

There were moments that Ned could see the man in his son, grown and weary, tired of battle and longing for family when words spilled from his lips. And, yet, there were times when Jon was nothing more than a three and ten-year-old boy, rough housing with his brother. He still acted upon the instincts and oft with the mindset of a boy rather than thinking things through with the wisdom of a man.

"Winter!" Jon called out, voice cracking still at end, telling of his bodies pending transformation into manhood.

The little dragon's feet were in Jon's hair, wings flapping to keep her balance. She squawked at him as he tried to grab her, hands batting ineffectually.

Robb burst out laughing, eyes shining as Jon untangled her and attempted to smooth his curls. Winter swooped around and landed on a nearby stump, folding her wings and quirking her head, watching the two boys. Winter tolerated most of the Stark household, but outside of Jon his eldest was one of her favorites. It could have something to do with the treats he snuck her when Jon wasn't watching.

Ned grinned, fingers tangling into Storm's thick fur. Today had been a good day, the most relaxing of any he had the pleasure of experiencing in recent months. Home was a mess of emotions and tangled plans. He was glad for the quiet.

Rickon was nearing a year now, a bit quieter on average at night but still not sleeping all the way through. His lady wife's anger with him over the lie he'd told of Jon's birth had also calmed slowly and was near non-existent now. Still the long-standing lie simmered between them.

It had taken days for Ned to work up the courage to speak with her of it and it had not been a pleasant conversation. Her anger towards him had been felt through the entire household for days, leaving some of the servants to gossip about what may have occurred. Wondering if he had broken her trust again.

But he had not, and he did not plan to lie to her again. There was only one secret he kept from her now, another one of Jon's, but if she asked he would answer truthfully. Ned thought she may ask eventually; too many things were changing, plans beginning to take form, that questions would arise one day that he couldn't easily explain away.

* * *

" _Your sister's son," Catelyn repeated, staring at him, her hands frozen in her lap._

 _It had been inevitable, with Jon knowing the truth, that his wife would be told. If nothing else she deserved the truth, one that he apparently had never shared with her in many worlds. Ned could not bear that her to live with the lie shaming her until her death, whenever it may be in this life._

 _No matter the pain it caused him; she deserved the truth. His heart was aching as he spoke, almost wishing he could take back the words and return to the status quo between them._

" _Aye," Ned dropped his head, "I promised her to protect him. This . . . claiming him as my son was the only path I could take."_

" _Because he's Rhaegar's son as well." Her voice was quiet, hardly above a whisper._

" _Their trueborn son," he said after a moment. "They wed before a Heart Tree on the Isle of Faces."_

" _I understand why," Catelyn said after a few minutes, standing and pacing to the window. "Had the child belonged to my sister or brother . . . I dare say I would have done the same. But you let me believe that he was your bastard. That you lay with another woman for twelve years."_

 _She turned back to him, muscles tense with fury and her eyes pleading. "Why tell me now? If you have felt unable to trust me with this secret for so long, why now?"_

" _He knows," Ned answered honestly, meeting her gaze._

 _Catelyn's eyes flashed with anger and chin lifting, she spoke, her voice low and grating, "Get out."_

" _Cat—"_

" _You let me hurt_ my nephew _," Catelyn's voice was strained. "Hurt a child, cousin to my children, for twelve years. I wished him_ dead _on more than one occasion. Family. Duty. Honor. Those are the Tully words and you had me sully them."_

" _He has always been a child, a Stark—"_

" _But he wasn't_ my _family, not when he was a bastard son born of my husband's dishonor," Catelyn bit out, fingers clenching on her arms. "You know the difference."_

" _He would still have been a bastard to the world had I told you from the beginning," Ned said._

" _We could have figured something out. He could have been Benjen's!" she spat back. "Benjen hadn't yet taken the black. Brandon's, perhaps, if we could work the dates or even a twin for Robb if enough mouths could be bought and oaths sworn. You didn't even_ try _."_

 _She turned away, stalking to the door. "I don't want to see you for the rest of the night. I will speak with you in the morn . . ." Catelyn paused jaw clenching, "or perhaps the day after."_

* * *

"Lord Stark?" Ser Jory called as he walked up, eyes scanning the forest before alighting on the boys and dragon rough housing. He kept his eyes on Winter until he reached Ned, still amazed at the tiny beast. Only the most trusted members of the household and guard had yet to be briefed on her existence, a secret that was getting harder to contain as her energy level and size increased.

Heeding Jon's words, more so words unsaid than things explicitly spoken of, Ned had taken stock of the spy network in place in the North and then taken what Jon had known from multiple lives of the spy networks of others and acted. He had to be careful, though, so things were slow going as not to arouse too much suspicion. The swiftest course of action wasn't one he could stomach, to try spies and end them. But many of the crimes had yet to be done and he could not act without cause.

Lord Baelish's network was one he could not stand to allow the access it once had among the cities and castles of the North. The man's actions across _all_ of Jon's lives to house Stark was not something that Ned could allow to come to pass in this one. He had been aware of the man's infatuation with Catelyn, but the news of his relationship with her sister Lysa . . . Ned was still trying to decide what could be done about that.

Not beheading those that were in the pocket of others didn't mean the North couldn't clean house, gain loyalty, and in a few, very rare, cases silence or pay for someone to leave town. The number of people who knew of the dragon currently was within a few dozen, but that would only grow and once her existence was known questions would be asked by more than just those that served him.

He had seen the looks, consideration, sent Jon's way recently. More than one servant had put the truth together Ned was sure, a few of the older servant's behavior had even changed as where they once treated him with indifference at best and as a bastard he was now afforded smiles. That at least made Ned happy for they could have resented his existence instead, especially with a dragon at his side.

Naming the dragon Winter was perhaps the best thing Jon could have done. Between Ghost and the dragon's name and appearance those that may have been swayed toward dislike over Rhaegar's actions in the war were reminded most harshly of the _ice_ side of the boy—the Stark side.

Storm lifted her head, looking up at Ser Jory as the man stopped a pace away.

"Yes, Ser Jory?"

The young man's gaze shifted away from where Robb was trying to convince Winter to accept his touch, Jon at his side. The little dragon was more standoffish than any of the wolves except when her human was there to coax her. Perhaps it was a species trait or it may have been a testament to how closely Jon's personality tied with the dragon—and Ghost—for he had noticed his son avoided touch from many people, excepting a few that he had placed his trust in. Mostly his family.

"Tomas and Luca have caught some pheasants, rabbits, and a couple of mud ducks," Jory reported his lips twitching with mirth. "They did lose a bird to Grey Wind and Ghost, though." His grin grew. "The pups startled poor Tomas and took it right from his hand."

"Ghost did?" Ned asked, eyebrow raising.

"Ghost surprised Tomas," Jory amended, "but it was Grey Wind that did the snatching."

 _So like their boys,_ Ned thought. Like most trouble Robb and Jon got into; it was probably Grey Wind who had planned the deed, Ghost following his lead.

"The cart is full, the cooks will be happy," Jory said.

Nodding, Ned stood as Storm shifted to her feet. "Boys!" he called, stopping them in place, Winter even turning her attention to him. Glancing down he caught his direwolf's eye. She chuffed at him before letting out a short howl. He waited until she was done before speaking again, "Time to head back."

Patting the direwolf's shoulder, he watched as his sons began searching for their discarded gear. Winter eyed them for a moment before lifting into the air, flapping into the trees. Her scales caught the light for a moment, causing Ned to squint as he watched her go.

* * *

 _There had been some discussion on when and how to let the rest of the family know of Winter's existence. After himself, they had told Catelyn together while Jon had shown the little dragon to Robb on his own. Showing the other children had come later, starting with Sansa and Arya._

 _He had called the two girls to his solar, Jon already present with the little dragon, deciding to tell them not only of the dragon but also of his parentage. They were older then Bran and Rickon and more apt to keep their mouths shut or obfuscate the truth if asked. Telling the boys, or at least Bran, could wait a little while. The little dragon spent most of her time in Jon or Robb's room at the moment anyway, only leaving to the Godswood at night in a basket._

" _Jon?" Arya was the first to speak when she entered the room behind her father, surprised to see him._

" _Arya," Jon greeted with a nervous smile and then he looked over to Sansa as Ned barred the Solar door, "Sansa."_

" _What's going on?" Sansa asked, looking back at her father a frown playing on her face._

" _Jon, and I, have something to speak with you two about," Ned said, motioning them towards benches in front of the fire._

 _Arya glanced over at Jon, scrutinizing him with her grey eyes. "Is this about your mother?"_

 _Sansa's eyes widened as she sat, looking between her father and Jon. She twisted a lock of red hair, gleaming in the firelight, between her fingers._

" _It is," Jon nodded, biting his lip before kneeling next to a basket on the floor. His direwolf, Ghost was lying next to it red eyes watching it intently. "I have something I want to show you first, though. She's a bit impatient and doesn't like being cooped up."_

" _She?" Arya frowned, feet shifting under her and fingers fidgeting in her lap as she leaned forward._

 _Jon glanced at her with a small smile before removing the lid from the wicker frame and reaching a hand inside. Carefully, he lifted the small frail looking form of the baby dragon from its confines. "Her name is Winter," he said, shifting himself to give the girls a good view of the dragon._

 _She blinked at them, shifting herself in Jon's hold before flaring her wings, flapping them slightly as she pushed herself as tall as she could go without lifting from his hands._

 _Ned grinned to himself as he watched the play of emotions across his daughters faces. Shock and awe. Disbelief and others. It took a few minutes before either gathered themselves to speak._

" _She's so beautiful!" Sansa said breaking the silence finally, eyes wide in surprise as she eyed the small dragon. It seemed to preen before her, shifting its wings and body into various poses as Jon smiled slightly at it._

" _That's a real dragon," Arya stared at Winter for a moment longer, eyes widening, and turned her gaze to stare at Jon. "How come you get a dragon? I want a dragon." She turned to Ned and asked, "Do we all get a dragon?"_

" _Of course not, stupid—"_

" _Sansa," Ned warned his eldest daughter._

 _Sansa glared at her sister before dropping her eyes at her father's warning, frowning. "Jon gets a dragon because of his mother, right?" She looked back up to him, imploringly. "Like we have the direwolves. She was a Tar-Targaryen?"_

 _Jon winced, hand curling in Ghost's fur._

" _Not quite," Ned answered, wincing, a sad smile tugging his lips. If she had thought further on it, he knew is daughter would have concluded that there were no female Targaryen's that Ned could have fathered a child on. "Jon's father left the egg to him. His mother—his mother was your Aunt Lyanna."_

" _He's not our brother?" Arya asked, darting her gaze to Jon, brow furrowing in confusion. Jon had always been the one she was closest to of the children. Ever since Arya had been born with the same dark hair and grey eyes as the boy had; Jon had latched onto her and eventually her to him._

" _He's our cousin?" Sansa asked a moment later, turning to stare at Jon. "Prince Rhaegar was his father." Her eyes shifted quickly between Jon, the dragon, and back again. "You're a Prince . . . or would you be a King?" she asked, frown deepening as she tried to decipher the puzzle placed in front of her. As they began to widen in horror, no doubt remembering some of the nastier rumors regarding the late crown prince Ned cleared his throat._

" _The Targaryen dynasty was defeated," he said quickly as he watched Jon shift awkwardly, his son's eyes dropping to the ground. "While technically he would retain a title by birth, he is without a kingdom and if his true birth status was revealed he would be killed. While Jon is your cousin by birth he has been raised a Stark—raised as your brother—no matter who his birth father is."_

 _Arya pursed her lips before shifting, moving quickly she wrapped her arms around Jon in a hug, which the boy returned swiftly. "You are my brother. No matter who your true father is," she paused and leaned back until she could meet his eyes. "You'll always be my brother."_

* * *

"She'll meet us at the cart," Jon said as he leaned over to grab his bow and then frowning began brushing grass off his stained breaches. "I think she just wants to stretch her wings a bit more."

"Grey Wind!" Robb exclaimed, scowling at the wolf as he bounded into the clearing.

Ned had to smother laughter at the sight of the young wolves as they trotted over to their boys. Grey Wind was covered in mud, feathers, and the occasional patch of blood on his fur. His brother was much more dignified looking, a bit of mud on his paws and a bit of red coloring the fur on his muzzle.

"They better find a water hole to clean up in or you'll be giving them baths when we get home," Ned said running a hand over Storm's back as she walked past to greet her pups. "Else they will be spending the night in the kennels."

* * *

It took perhaps half an hour to reach the spot where the horses were tied up. One of the guard, a man named Benron, had already hitched the cart that carried the catches they'd made. He was standing nearby, eyes locked in a contest with Winter who had made herself comfortable upon the seat.

"Winter," Jon said, grinning slightly as he reached the cart and settled his bow and quiver in the back.

She chirp-squawked and stood, flapping her wings slightly as she faced him.

"Come off there." Jon held his arm out and she hopped over until she was at the edge of the seat. He gathered her up and turned to the back of the cart.

Ned sighed as he watched his son place the little dragon in the cage Mikken had worked up. It had enough space for her to turn around, but she couldn't even flare her wings. He wished that they didn't have to keep her so hidden, but they would be riding through Winter town on the return trip and Ned wasn't satisfied that the spies had been fully rooted out or that small folk wouldn't spread rumors of a dragon.

Jon whispered to her, feeding chunks of cooked meat to her as Ned turned and strode to the horses. They had been saddled and readied for the ride home already, relatively calm even as the direwolves settled down nearby to wait for the group to be ready.

He'd set the children to getting the horses used to the direwolves presence and they had done well with task, for the most part. Only one horse had panicked to the point of injuring itself and it had been a relatively minor injury.

Ser Jory came up beside him, advising him of the final count of fowl and hares that had been caught. They both watched as Jon settled a cloth over Winter's cage, securing it with some rope.

"She'll not be small enough to hide like that for long," Jory pointed out.

Ned nodded, sighing. "We'll come up with an alternative."

"More oaths?" Ser Jory asked, turning to meet Ned's eyes. "People break them."

"Northerners are loyal," Ned said, turning back to his saddle and mounting up. "The people adored Lyanna. Went to war for her. I can only hope that they will see her and not just . . . I can only hope that they see her in him and remember that devotion." At least for the time being. Rumors would spread, but the South had a habit of laughing rumors of the North—as Jon often complained about when discussing the South ignoring the Watches pleas—off and _Ice Dragons_? Rather unbelievable. Right up there with White Walkers and Giant Spiders.


	3. Mid-Summer

_" **I've been worrying about Jon for years. He always comes back."**_ _ **  
**_ _ **Samwell Tarly**_

* * *

The air was heavy with moisture, fog and drizzle keeping everything damp; vapor in the cool air sticking to everything from eyelashes to the dirt beneath the horse's feet. The road was well on its way to becoming a slop of mud. This far north the Kings Road wasn't as well maintained as it could—should have been. The travel it saw having declined over the past centuries until most that did so were on their way to the wall to stay.

The evening before last Jon's father had set he and Robb to calculating the cost and resources that would be necessary to maintain or reroute the road. Their father had been setting them many similar tasks, somewhat to keep them busy, Jon thought, for there wasn't much to do when riding upon a horse's back for days.

They were traveling to Castle Black to meet with Lord Commander Jeor Mormont in person and take stock of the status of the Watch. When Ned had announced their trip, it had shocked Jon for a moment, but it was a smart move. Lord Stark couldn't just take Jon's word on the details, he had to verify them and appear to gain the knowledge himself else he may be questioned on the veracity of the information.

It was not like his father could just outright tell his bannermen that Jon was a man who'd lived the future many a time and knew what would be coming. They would think both Lord Stark and Jon mad.

The retinue they were traveling with consisted of fifty Stark men and fifteen volunteers from Winter town and surrounding holds for the watch, plus an additional three men who had chosen to take the black over other choices: death and mutilation. Not all the Stark men were guards, at least five that Jon had seen were specialists of one type or another such as the two men who had been apprenticing to Winterfell's master builder for the last three years.

His father meant to fortify the Night's Watch—attempt to force a rebuild that would have it stronger than it had been for centuries—of that Jon was sure. It was something he had never had the time or power to attempt.

He took a deep breath, the chill air tickling the back of his throat causing him to cough a little. His horse flicked its ears and broke its steps for a moment as a long, distant howl sounded and was answered by two others. Jon grinned at the sound; the direwolves had spent much of the trip ranging far from their human companions, disappearing for days only to show up, loping beside their horses or laying near the fire at night.

"Elk?" Robb questioned suddenly and Jon glanced toward him to see a speculative frown on his brother's face.

Jon paused for a moment, reaching out to Ghost and relaxing into his saddle.

* * *

 _ **Ghost greeted him warmly as he looked through the wolf's eyes.**_

 _ **It was an elk, some young buck whose antlers suggested perhaps a year, maybe two, of age. Nothing a hunter would wish to mount on his wall. The elk was limping, already injured.**_

 _ **Grey Wind was circling around the other side while Storm watched to ensure that they would be able to take it down without injury to her pups. It would be their kill though—not hers.**_

* * *

Jon shook his head, taking a deep breath as he came back to himself. "You're right," he said nodding, "it is an elk."

"I wish I had your control," Robb groused. While the red head was growing quickly in his own connection with Grey Wind joining with his companion outside of dreams and rare passing moments was out of his skill range as yet.

"You're getting stronger." Jon smiled encouragingly, running a hand through his damp hair to press it away from his eyes. The moisture in the air was flattening the curls, near straightening them. "Took me," he dropped his voice to a near whisper, "years to get it."

Robb shot him a knowing look that Jon was just getting used to. A few days prior to leaving on this excursion their father had taken him aside and told him the truth of things about Jon. The fact that this was not the first life he'd lived.

Jon wasn't sure what all had been said between them, but Robb's behavior had changed little and for the most part had gone back to normal after the first few days on the road where they were living out of each other's pockets, sharing a tent, sparring, and without anyone but adults surrounding them.

"Where is Winter?" Robb asked suddenly, squinting at the grey sky.

"Around." Jon glanced upwards, looking for a break in the grey sky as he reached out to her. "Not far." Winter was strong enough to fly all day, but did not dare go too far else she tired or a sudden rainfall were to break out. The dragon didn't seem to mind the cold, but rain was a different story if she had other options available.

"How far from the wall would you say we are?" Robb asked a while later, breaking the silence. At times like these Jon very much missed his more talkative siblings, especially Arya who was probably still pouting over not being able to come with them.

"A few days more, perhaps," Jon glanced ahead to where their father was riding beside Ser Jory and one of the builders who had come with them. They had stopped for two days at Queenscrown, detouring from the Kings Road with a small group of men to check the castle over and since had been discussing the most feasible ways to refortify it. "Depending on if the weather holds, of course."

"I hope it does." Robb sighed as he dug into his saddle bags and Jon couldn't help but agree with him. Retrieving a water skin, his brother took a few long gulps, making a face. He held it out to Jon.

Jon moved his horse close enough that he could take the skin and took a long pull, making a face at the aftertaste. "Did this have spiced wine in it?"

"I think so." Robb winced. "It must have. Certainly tastes a bit like it."

Not even good spiced wine at that.

"I think this is the longest I've been from home," Robb said as he returned the skin to the pack.

"I miss it, too."

Robb nodded adjusting his seating as he wiped dampness from his face with the back of his hand. "You seemed a bit eager to leave," he pointed out, a grin growing on his face.

"Yes, well," Jon shot him a look, "your mother found out about Arya's lessons."

Robb's grin widened though he tried to hide it. Lady Catelyn had been more than displeased regarding the fact her little girl was learning to fight with swords. Somehow the blame had landed on Jon and Theon, missing Robb for the most part though he had taught her more than the Ironborn had.

"Mother will forgive you," Robb assured him. "I'm sure Arya will spend the entire time we're gone whining over the matter until someone gives in. Perhaps she'll even manage to convince Theon to continue teaching her."

* * *

 _Jon held his hand to his stomach, pressing hard against it. The wound was deep and he could feel how bad it was, how it would require an expert maester's hand to repair it. They didn't have a maester anymore, though, for Maester Luwin's body was sprawled on the ground nearby his body pierced by an Ironborn's blade._

 _Bran and Rickon were alive though, Hodor and the wildling woman having taken them into the crypts to hide while Jon led the men against the Ironborn attackers. The battle had been tough and many men died, but they had managed to defeat them._

 _Arya stood next to him, her lips in a flat line as she held Needle, the sword was red from the blood of men around her._

 _"You betrayed us." Arya's voice was steel, hardened by what she had seen since her trip back from Kings Landing on her own. She had killed before this, Jon knew, but seeing his little sister covered in blood preparing to kill again was something that still shook him._

 _He would stand through this by her side, though he wished he could be the one to swing the sword. Jon was far too injured to be the one to take his life, unfortunately, and he wasn't likely to survive it which something that only he and Mikken—who had done the basic patching up of him knew. Laying down and attempting to heal wouldn't do much to help though._

 _She took the blade another member of the guard offered her, hefting it carefully. Needle wasn't the type of sword to be used for beheading. At three and ten Arya was small but surprisingly strong and the sword was a bit smaller than most men's, but incredibly sharp._

 _"In the name of King Robb…." She made a face and skipped a bit, clearly unable to remember the exact words, "I, Arya, of House Stark sentence you to death."_

 _Theon had said nothing outside of a few murmured apologies, blue eyes wide as he stared at them and still now he kept his silence, but Jon could see the damp trails tracking down his pale cheeks._

 _When she swung the sword, it cut cleanly and surely._

 _A moment later Arya staggered to the side and heaved, spilling bile onto the bloodied dirt of the courtyard. Jon wished he could go to her, but the pain was increasing and a chill was setting in. He was leaning more heavily on Mikken now._

 _He only hoped that his letter to the Karstarks and Umbers had gotten through, that they would be the ones to arrive before the Boltons came to Winterfell's "defense"._

* * *

"Eventually she'll realize Arya is not Sansa," Robb said and squinting pointed to the west. "Is that Winter?"

Jon attempted to follow the line his finger pointed across the sky and smiled after a moment. "Aye, that it is."

He suspected that Lady Catelyn knew all too well how different Arya was from her older sister and that much of her attempts to shoehorn her into the role of a lady was done out of worry for her future. Arya was expected to marry one day and for a southroner lady that meant a different life than it did for some ladies of the north.

But what no one else but Jon knew was that Sansa wasn't just a lady dreaming of knights, princes, and happy endings. She had within her the potential to be a she-wolf, a warrior Queen of the North. Jon had seen it, multiple times.

Sansa may never be an expert swordsman but she could play the game and keep her people alive. Within her was a strategist of a different type who could bare her teeth and destroy men with words and bring kingdoms to the ground. If the Others had ever been the type to call a parley, Jon was sure Sansa would have won the war for Dawn.

Jon smiled a bit, thinking of the time since he awoke. Out of everyone, excepting perhaps Lady Catelyn, it had been Sansa with whom his relationship had most changed. Especially since Lady Catelyn's behavior had changed and then when his father had told Arya and Sansa the truth of his parentage.

Sansa had been much more willing to interact with him now that her mother's glaring eyes didn't follow them whenever they did so. It surprised him at how often he saw glimpses of the Queen he knew in so many lives. It made him wonder how the changes in this life would affect her growth as, at least he hoped, she'd be able to avoid many of the hard life lessons she faced so often.

* * *

Jon yawned, jaw popping as he fed Winter a slice of rabbit from his own dish. She snapped her jaws, carefully avoiding his fingers as she pulled it from his grasp.

Their fire was set the farthest from where the volunteers for the wall and criminals were sleeping, surrounded by tents and Stark men that were trusted and had sworn oaths to keep the dragon's existence silent. They all called her 'Winter' and the word 'dragon' was avoided amongst them. Most strangers that heard of her seemed to think she was another direwolf, perhaps helped along by the fact that Bran's wolf was known to be called Summer.

"Winter," Robb called from his seat across the from them, the flames flickering and his visage distorting in the smoke. He held up a piece of meat and she quirked her head before flaring her wings back and hunkering down onto her hind legs.

A moment later of his teasing her, waving the meat around to watch her eyes follow it, Robb tossed it into the air, arcing it towards them. She was in the air in an instant, wings flapping through the smoke and disturbing the flames as she caught it midair. Wheeling, she swooped above the heads of a few men before disappearing into the trees nearby.

"Are you bribing my dragon?" Jon asked, raising an eyebrow before taking a bite of venison himself.

"Here I thought you belonged to her!" Robb japed, grinning. "But yes, I suppose I am."

"Oh?"

"I figure I'll have a good shot at convincing her to give me a ride one day," he shrugged and took a bite of food.

"That'll be years away."

"Exactly. I have years to convince her I'm worth of at least one ride without her dumping me on my ass or roasting me," Robb said grinning only to duck a moment later as Winter flew right over his head, slapping the top of his red hair with her tail before crossing through the fire to land at Jon's side.

Jon smiled at her, gently running his hand over some new scale growths, scratching ever so slightly. She leaned into his fingers and settled her head against his thigh, letting out a purr-like chuffing noise.

"She's not going to burn the forest down, is she?" Ser Jory asked as he dropped down onto a fur matt nearby, settling his sword at his side. He had a steaming mug in hand which he sipped from. "Or your tent?"

"She's good about the fire," Jon said, shaking his head.

"She's only set his bedding on fire once," Robb chuckled at the memory, "and it was only a few small flames before Jon stamped it out. I don't think I've ever seen such a comical look on a dragon before."

Jon still wasn't sure what had caused it really—she had let out some cross between a hiccup and a cough, clearly not intending to burn anything—and she had been so surprised over the flames that she had spit for but a second at the bed he had almost been laughing too hard to put it out. Luckily only one fur blanket had been lost to the accident and it had even been salvageable, somewhat.

"She does like to practice when she can," he acknowledged, "but she keeps it to helping start campfires, cooking scraps of her meal on rocks, and shooting flames far above the treetops."

Ser Jory nodded, taking a long pull from his drink as he watched her. "She'll be a force to be reckoned with one day."

"Yes," Jon said, looking down at her watching the glow of the flames shine off her scales. "She will."

"And our enemies will learn a new meaning to the words 'Winter is coming'," Robb said and then burst out laughing at the glare Jon sent his way. Arya had been the first to bring up the matter and it hadn't been dropped since.

Ser Jory caught up in the laughter as well, nearly spilling his drink. "What had you name her that?" he asked.

"It was her name," Jon glanced over to him and shrugged. "I couldn't name her anything else."

* * *

There was a light dusting of summer snow on the ground when they reached the wall; coming upon the gates of Castle Black in the late afternoon. The castle was one of the few on the wall well maintained and even it was showing its age as less and less skilled workers took the black each generation and less resources were provided by the southern lords and throne. It was a situation helped along by the Citadel whose claims of the disappearance of magic and that many of the old legends were nothing more than exaggerated tales to scare little children to stay indoors during the long winters.

No one wanted to believe in the Others and dead rising, so most didn't and the South always spent years ignoring the cries of the North until they couldn't.

The funding provided by the Crown and the Wardens had lessened over the centuries but none so quick as in the last—especially since the rebellion when the Targaryen's were replaced by a Baratheon King whose crown was drastically in debt.

Winter had flown off before they got in sight of the gate, disappearing into the forest and agreeing to meet them later within the castle. Hopefully they would be settled into a room with a large enough window for her to fit through.

As the gate opened, admitting them into the castle proper, Jon couldn't help but watch his father, wondering what he thought of the busy, gloomy setting. Abstractly he knew his father had visited the Wall before, but never with the knowledge he possessed now. Never knowing about the war that was to come and how utterly unprepared the men of the Watch currently were.

It would be a long uphill battle to convince the watch to accept any changes, let alone the ones his father had discussed with him during their talks. They didn't currently have the numbers to support many of them either, and Jon wasn't sure how much more readily the other kingdoms would accept the pleas for men and supplies from the Warden of the North instead of the Lord Commander of the Wall. Hopefully they may lend a bit more credence and at least consider aiding.

Lord Commander Mormont had been aware of their pending arrival, ravens having been shared between Lord Stark and he for months prior, and he was in the courtyard to greet them when they drew their horses inside. Jon's eyes caught on the sword at the man's hip, the bear shaped pommel easily visible, and his heart ached. Longclaw was still one of his most beloved memories and treasures in the lives he owned it. It was his favorite Valyrian steel sword.

He was unlikely to own it in this life.

* * *

" _Last words?" Ser Alliser Thorne glared at him, eyes daring._

 _Jon had taken one too many risks, had lost the vote for Lord Commander, and after another 'mistake', following the death of Maester Aemon, Ser Alliser and his allies had seized upon the chance to end the life of their main opponent. He was just glad that Sam and Edd had gone to Eastwatch several weeks ago at the man's orders. All of Jon's friends were either dead, ranging, or posted elsewhere now._

 _He breathed in the cool air and watched a few flakes of snow land on the block in front of him. A small grin tugging at his lips._

" _Just two requests," Jon said after a moment. "Longclaw should go to Lady Mormont on Bear Island as it's the Mormont family sword."_

" _That's only fair," Janos Slynt sneered at him. "It should never have gone to a bastard son of a traitor like yourself."_

 _Ser Alliser glared at him, silencing the other man. "And?"_

" _There's a letter beneath my mattress. I wish it to be sent on to my aunt in Meereen along with notice of Maester Aemon's death." Jon glared up at the knight. "As much as I hate you right now, she has dragons and you'll be needing them if you wish to keep the realm safe. Although I don't know how happy she'll be to give it when she finds out you chopped the head off possibly her only living relative."_

 _He leaned down, resting his chin on the wood block. "Maybe she'll burn you along with all the wights."_

 _The choking sound and cries of outrage would have been amusing if Jon thought Ser Alliser would believe him. He wished he could see the look on the man's face when Daenerys arrived, but he'd be long gone before then._

* * *

"Lord Stark," Jeor Mormont greeted them, moving to clasp arms with the Warden of the North.

"Lord Commander Mormont," Ned said, smiling back at the man who then paused to introduce the Officers of the Watch that stood behind him. Benjen was noticeably missing from the group although no one else retained his title.

"And where is my younger brother?" Ned asked after basic pleasantries had been exchanged.

"Due back from a ranging yesterday," Jeor answered not a trace of worry in his voice. "There was a storm several days ago so they experienced a bit of a delay. We expect him to return anytime." He motioned towards one of the towers. "We've prepared a set of rooms for you and your sons," Jeor glanced between Robb and Jon. "Your men will be assigned rooms in the barracks with the recruits."

"That will be fine."

Jeor paused a moment eyes taking in the forms of the direwolves sauntering through the gate, a few horses skittering away from them. "So Benjen isn't the only one," he mused, left side of his lips quirking slightly.

Jon's brow raised as he glanced at Ghost, the pup trotting over to lean against his side. Uncle Benjen had a direwolf as well? This was yet another unexpected change.

"My brother has a direwolf as well?"

"Aye," Jeor nodded, eyes taking their fill of each of the three. "A great big black beast. Calls him Midnight. Your wolves are welcome here, but," he stared at Robb and Jon in turn as he spoke, "you'll need to keep them under control and pick up after them. I won't have my men injured or cleaning up at them. If they're anything like Benjen's wolf, though, I doubt this will be much of an issue for you."

* * *

"You lived here for years?" Robb asked him quietly as they settled their bags on the small beds in the room they were sharing next to and attached to their father's room. "In multiple lives?"

Jon shot a look at his brother before rolling his eyes. "Aye." he opened his bag and removed some clothing to air. The dampness of the road seemed to have reached everywhere. He wrinkled his nose at the musty scent clinging to the fabric. "It's not as bad as first impressions may suggest."

"Hmm," Robb quirked a half grin his way, "honestly I was just imagining Sansa's face upon seeing the place and men."

They both chuckled a little at the image and Jon couldn't help but compare the little sister in Winterfell to the woman who sought him out more than once at Castle Black.

"She came to find me here," Jon said as the laughter died down, "multiple times." He laid out his tunic and breaches on a stool near the fire. "She often had a rough go of things. Sansa is stronger than anyone knows."

"She's a Stark. Of course, she is," Robb acknowledged as he sat on his bed, fingers running over Grey Wind's ears when his wolf jumped up next to him. "You are too large to sleep with me," he murmured scrubbing fingers gently through thick fur. "You'll just have to wait until we get home, boy."

Jon glanced their way and to Ghost who had settled in front of the hearth as he made his way to the window at the back of the room. The shutter was open and he curled his hands over the sill, eyes trailing across the sky. Winter was nearby, he could feel her, staying out of sight until she could join them later when she was less likely to be seen.

They slept well that night, glad to have the comfort of solid walls and a bed of furs warmed by a crackling fire. Winter had joined them, after dark and dinner, curling up on the hearth to rest. She had caught a small rabbit and was incredibly proud of herself. He'd caught glimpses of it and was glad she'd found a large rock to cook it on rather than simply doing so on the forest floor.

Storm had disappeared into the woods north of the Wall after dinner when a ranger had returned from a brief trip to check traps that had been set the previous day. Their father hadn't done anything but watch her go, shrugging when one of the older men had mentioned him losing his 'pet'.

He had simply asked that when and if she returned they let her in without question or issue.

Ghost and Grey Wind were curled up in front of the hearth, nose to tail, while Winter was half curled in the fire, tail within the flames. The dragon had been there almost since she came through the window, enjoying the ability to relish the warmth.

A knock on the door that connected to their father's room broke the near silence of the room. Jon startled from a light sleep, fingers wrapping around the hilt of his dagger as he sat up.

"Father?" Robb asked, bleary eyed and squinting at the form in the doorway.

Jon's eyes adjusted first and he grinned, crawling quickly from the furs and shoving the dagger beneath his pillow. "Uncle Benjen!" he exclaimed, moving quickly.

"You've grown," Benjen laughed, hand ruffling Jon's hair as he pulled his nephew to him in a tight hug. Robb joined them a moment later and Jon stepped back smiling as his brother was encompassed in a hug just as tight. "You as well!"

"You should visit more often!" Robb said, smiling up at their uncle as the three of them stepped back into the middle of the room, making room for Ned to join them. It had been two years since Benjen had last visited during a recruitment trip around northern settlements.

"I heard of your wolves," Benjen said as he caught site of the two where they had stood, ears perked at the sudden intrusion into their space. He knelt and held out his hands, palms up. They moved then, nails scratching at the floor as they acted every bit like excited puppies as they greeted the wayward member of the Stark clan. Laughing, he let Ghost lick his fingers as Grey Wind surprised him with a kiss to his face.

Jon caught site of Winter, grumpily moving off the hearth as his father stoked the fire. Stepping around his uncle he moved to the fire himself, and leaning down picked her up, gathering her into his arms.

She was warm from the fire, her tail especially so where it curled around his arm. She was just too large to settle on his shoulders anymore and full from her earlier meal.

"Gods . . ." Benjen breathed, hands stilling on Grey Wind's scruff.

"Not a God," Robb said, grinning. "Just a dragon."

"Her name is Winter," Jon said, biting his lip as he stepped closer unsure of how much Benjen knew. His uncle stared at the little dragon for a long moment and she tilted her head inquisitively at him. "She's not too keen on being touched by most people," he murmured though his uncle made no move towards her.

"I always wondered," Benjen said softly, "but never dared to ask if you were Lyanna's." He glanced over at Ned. "I knew your mother had left willingly with Rhaegar and it was hard to believe that Ned would . . ." he paused and met Jon's gaze. "I would tell you of her, if you wish," he said, a soft smile on his face. "There are stories I have from the time Ned was fostering that he doesn't know."

"I would like that," Jon said quickly, voice rough. "Very much so."

Benjen nodded and then glanced at Ned before turning back to Robb and Jon. "We will have plenty of time in the coming days for stories. Now, though, dawn is nearly here. Get dressed in your warmest furs. Sunrise is a wonder to see from the top of the Wall."

* * *

 _Jon had died in many, many ways, but none were quite as embarrassing to remember as the time he fell off the wall. It wasn't in a battle; it wasn't amid a fight with another black brother. No one betrayed and murdered him._

 _He was eighteen, a moon after his father had been killed by the Crown and his brother recently slain in battle with the Lannisters when he was assigned watch on a stormy night. Perhaps he was too sure of himself, his footing and knowledge of the Wall after having served there for so many lives at this point. Whatever it was the wind, slick ice, and being just a hair to close to the edge was his downfall._

 _Jon wondered how long it took for them to find his body and what his brothers had thought of it._

 _He was much more cautious when cavorting around the top of the 700 foot tall wall from then on._

* * *

The sky was greying with pre-dawn light as they reached the top of the Wall. Benjen carefully led them through the battlements, past trebuchets and weapons built ages ago but carefully maintained by the builders in most cases. He stopped in place on occasion, pointing out places, items, slick spots on the icy walkway, or explaining the reasoning behind different equipment. Jon thought the latter was mostly for their father's benefit, but he listened with half an ear as he already knew the information his uncle was providing.

The wolves and Winter had been left in the room, though Jon knew the little dragon longed to fly to the top of the Wall herself. It was too dangerous for her, though, as she was still so small. He didn't believe her wings would be strong enough for the thin air and varying wind gusts that followed the Wall. He wasn't about to risk her with it.

Benjen took them to one of the larger viewing areas, big enough for them to stand side by side and watch as the sun rose, colors creeping north and westward across the large expanse of territory. It was just as breathtaking as the last time Jon had seen the sun rise from here, but more enjoyable for the company.

After a moment, he slanted his gaze to Robb, watching his brother's expression shift minutely at the exhilarating sight before him.

"It's beautiful," Robb murmured, turning to him for a few seconds. "Now this—this Sansa would love to see."

Jon smiled, eyes turning back to the colors painting a mosaic across the sky. Maybe one day she would, only perhaps this time it would be a happier moment—filled more with smiles than tears teasing at the edges of their sight. More laughter and less somber silence. "Aye, I think she would."

* * *

Holding a hand out to the boy, a young trainee for the watch, Jon smiled at him. His name was Belmyr, Jon thought, a commoner child from the south who'd come in a recent batch of trainees. He'd lived in a port town and looked to perhaps have some Braavosi blood in him. New to the sword he did decently, less apt then the others to lose his balance.

Belmyr was the youngest recruit here and not one Jon recognized. He supposed the boy with his knowledge of ships had probably been assigned to Eastwatch, but he had no idea of how long he'd lived.

"Watch your right side," Jon said, handing back his sword.

"I'm too busy watching my left," Belmyr groaned, snatching up his wooden practice sword from the ground. He was of a height with Jon, but perhaps a year or so younger. Not the youngest recruit the watch had ever seen—some young boys saw it as a way out of starving and desperate conditions when the recruiters passed through.

"Have to learn to watch both," Jon returned and they fell back into a stance, several paces apart. "It'll come with practice. I've had years of training. You've had months."

As they traded swings, Jon holding back to allow the other boy to practice reading his movements and learn to adjust his own, he caught site of Robb passing by with Grey Wind at his heels as he walked with one of the builders. They had been set to training and following the paths of various members of the Watch throughout their days here, both to learn the ins and outs of the Watch and to get to know the people. Yesterday morning it had been Robb working with the trainees, today it was Jon.

He blocked a blow and grabbed Belmyr's arm, causing him to freeze. Jon held up a hand and then backed up a pace and slipped into a different stance. "You have good, sure footing. Use it to your advantage." Belmyr copied his stance as Jon continued, "Your sword and your hands are not your only weapons." They copied their previous movements, this time Jon following the pattern that Belmyr had. "Sometimes your foot," he swept his foot out and tapped it at the back of Belmyr's legs, "is your best weapon."

"That's it for now, boys," Ser Alliser's voice rang out through the yard and Jon looked up, catching the man staring their way although his words were meant for everyone. "Put away your equipment and get cleaned up. Midday meal will begin shortly and you'll need your strength for this afternoon."

The boys and men rushed to follow his words, hunger nawing at their bellies. Some had missed the morning meal, unused to the early hour that they were fed. If you lay about you risked missing meals as the cook was less apt to make food outside the usual hours unless injury or work was the cause.

"Snow," Ser Alliser's voice caused him pause and Jon grit his teeth together for a moment before turning back and meeting the master-at-arm's gaze.

"Yes, ser?" he asked, attempting to keep his face and voice neutral.

"Do you teach your younger siblings?" the knight asked, leaning down to pick up a discarded shield, an annoyed scowl on his face.

Jon blinked, brow tightening, before he nodded. "I do. My sister Arya and brother Bran, sometimes."

"You've got a good head for it," Ser Alliser acknowledged after a moment, looking over him. "Teaching that is. Good eyes for seeing all manner of mistakes as well."

"Thank you," Jon said, eyes wide as he stared at the man. This was . . . different. "Thank you, ser."

"You're a good fighter from what I've seen. If your brother allows it you should consider taking over for Winterfell's master at arms—Ser Rodrik, I believe?—when he retires," Ser Alliser advised, setting a hand on his shoulder. "If not then we can always use good teachers to knock sense into the lot we have here at the Wall." The man stalked off then and Jon stared after him, shocked.

That was entirely not what he had been expecting at all.

He stood there, staring for a long moment before heading to place away his practice blade and head to lunch. There would be plenty of time to mull over this later.

While Jon and Robb were following and learning, watching how the castle operated and learning the skill levels of those within it, Lord Stark spent much of the time with Jeor, Benjen, and the other leaders of the Watch going over details and plans. Discussing the dwindling numbers of the once grand Nights Watch and the status of the abandoned castles along the wall.

Each night they met with their father, going over what they had learned and learning only a bit of what he had. Jon knew his father was holding back information from them. As the months had worn on since his arrival in this world, Jon had realized that his father was doing his best to take up as much as possible of the mantle that Jon normally wore. In many ways Jon was thankful for it, glad to be able to just be with his family, but it also made him worried—worried that his father would miss something for all the information Jon had given to him and it would result in his head rolling in the dirt once again.

It was nice though, not to have to be the one to worry over every single detail, even if it did occasionally keep his thoughts racing at night.

Jon had many things to dwell on, but there was one particular thought he had been going over since Winter had hatched. It was something he could act on and that his father had given him permission without reservation to do so.

Five days after their arrival Jon was assigned to assist Maester Aemon in the castles library; to help organize the hundreds of scrolls and books that lined the shelves. They worked in silence for some time after the Maester gave him the initial instructions, going through the scrolls that littered the floor and books that were stacked haphazardly in places that none should be. The Maester's current steward was certainly lacking, for all that the young man was one of the few fully literate men at the wall. Nothing about how the room was currently organized would make it easy for the blind Maester to navigate and locate material at a moment's notice.

"Out with it," Maester Aemon said into the silence eventually from where he sat on a chair near the fire, fingers running over the pages of an old book.

Jon stilled.

"I may be blind, but I have had decades to learn when a person has something they wish to speak of, but cannot get out." The man turned his head slightly in Jon's direction.

He swallowed and set several books back on the stack he'd picked them up from. "I do," Jon said after a long moment, biting his bottom lip before nodding slightly to himself. He moved across the room slowly, dropping into the chair across from the Maester.

"Yet you are saying nothing," Aemon said, leaning forward slightly. "Nothing you say or ask will insult me, boy. I have heard all manner of things within these walls and before."

"It's not that," Jon said quickly, hands clenching on his thighs. "I don't have a question—well I do have questions—but mostly I have something to tell you." He paused, swallowing; his mouth suddenly felt very dry. "I just don't know how to—how to begin."

"Then start at the beginning," Aemon leaned back, settling back into the chair. "I always find that is the best part when one is at a loss for words."

Jon smile slightly and then sighed, searching for the words. "The beginning," he said softly. "My mother was—was Lyanna Stark." He looked up, watching his some-great uncle's face.

The man had frozen, brow tightening for just a tick before he moved, reaching out a shaking hand towards Jon. Moving forward quickly to the edge of his seat, Jon caught it gently.

"And your father?" Aemon asked, voice rough and wavering.

"Rhaegar," Jon whispered. "Rhaegar Targaryen."

The Maester's breath caught and he grasped Jon's hand tightly. "I hadn't thought . . ." he paused and motioned Jon forward with his free hand. "May I?"

"Yes. Yes, of course," Jon answered standing and moving forward stooped to kneel in front of the elderly man. He lifted the Maester's hand to settle against his face as the man rested the fingertips of his other hand against his cheek.

Jon closed his eyes as rough, warm fingers traced his features, taking in details that eyes no longer could.

"You have a lot of Stark in you," Aemon said several long minutes later as his fingers traced around Jon's eyes, "but your brow, the shape of your eyes and lips . . . those certainly are from your father's blood." He touched Jon's curls before settling on his nape and then his shoulders.

"Aye," Jon acknowledged, "I have a lot of my mother . . . Lord Stark says I am paler than her, but my eyes are the Stark grey, my hair so dark its nearly black."

"Curly, though," Aemon mused as he ran his hand down Jon's arms. "You have your father's build, I believe. Though it is hard to tell as you are still young and men can change much in size up through their late teenage years."

"You met him?"

"A few times," Aemon smiled sadly. "There was not much cause for the royal family to visit me, but I was family and each member met me at least once except Viserys and the younger children. Your father more than others, but perhaps it was just as much that he was interested in the books that this library held as he was meeting an old man. I shared letters with him and his mother. They kept me up to date with the family."

"Did you know of my mother?"

Aemon smiled softly, sadly, and touched his cheek. "He wrote to me once of her. That he cared for her and of her beauty. He spoke of the tourney at Harrenhall. It was the last letter I received from him."

Jon's eyes shifted over the man's shoulder, stopping on the window, open to let in the sunlight. "There is someone I would have you meet," he said a moment later, shifting his legs and moving to stand. "Wait here for a moment, please."

The Maester raised an eyebrow but nodded, head tilting as he listened to Jon move about the room.

Winter was there moments after he reached the window, alighting on the sill with a gently ease. He smiled at her, running fingers lightly over her head before gathering the small dragon to him. She hopped forward into his arms, something he was realizing she was getting nearly too big to do easily.

Bringing his right arm up to steady her as she settled her feet on his left, he crossed the room back to the fire. Once there he used his foot to bring the chair he'd been sitting on closer to Maester Aemon's and gently settled Winter onto it. She swirled on it several times until she was facing the old man, head tilting inquisitively at him.

Maester Aemon was frowning, Jon noticed, blind eyes staring in their direction.

"May I take your hand?" Jon asked softly.

Aemon nodded and held out his right hand. Gently wrapping his fingers around Aemon's bony wrist, and after mentally checking with Winter, he gently settled the elder Targaryen's fingers against the crest of her scaled head.

Winter bumped her head up against the man's fingers gently, sliding the slightly rougher scales of the top of her head against the shaking digits. She let out a light squawking chuff-purr and her third eyelid slid partway across her eyes.

Aemon gasped, breath leaving his body in a rush, eyes widening before squinting as they glistened with unshed tears.

Jon released his wrist. "She won't hurt you. She recognizes your Targaryen blood . . . and I'm here."

"How?" Aemon managed to ask as he ran fingers over her scaled body. For her part Winter was staying mostly still, shifting only slightly at his attentions—attentions she was clearly enjoying.

"Rhaegar left an egg for me with my mother . . . I'm not sure why but she hatched about 6 months ago."

"Dragon's do not have a gender," Aemon said, smile still growing.

"I know," Jon said, moving to lean against the chair. "But she felt like a she to me."

"And her coloring?" Aemon asked after a few minutes as he gently caressed one of her wings.

"Mostly a white-silver with blue accents around her eyes, claws, back, and wings. They range from a pale blue as light as a summer sky to near dark as midnight," Jon said, smiling down at her. She lifted her head, opening her eyes to stare back at him. "Her name is Winter," he added after a moment. "She does breathe fire though."

"I should hope so!" Aemon laughed. "She is most certainly of Valyrian decent. They are much different than the description of ice dragons of legend."

* * *

 _Jon stared at the dragon before him, its eyes were blank and it had not responded to its attempts to garner its attention._

" _Please Rhaegal," he murmured softly, more to himself than anything. The dragon had already attempted to burn him and he stood naked before it his sword on the ground near his feet from the loss of the scabbard._

 _There was no one nearby, Viseron had been injured, fallen to the ground behind him. Jon himself had broken his arm when they'd been knocked out of the sky by Rhaegal and the man controlling him. Jon had no idea where Daenerys and Drogon were, hopefully they still lived._

" _Please," his voice was a hushed whisper as he desperately clawed mentally towards the dragon that in some lives he shared a flimsy bond with. In this life, he'd been with the golden dragon instead, his brother Aegon bonded with Rhaegal._

 _But Aegon was dead and an Ironborn madman sat on his dragon's back._

 _Jon would find that horn and burn destroy it he vowed to himself. This wouldn't happen again. Not if he could help it._

 _He let his eyes closed as Rhaegal roared and drew close, mouth widening and teeth as sharp as daggers glistened with saliva in the dying sunlight._

* * *

"Jon," his father called, standing the doorway between their rooms. "Come, please, I have a few questions to ask."

"Of course, father," Jon said, dropping the book he'd been reading onto his pillow. It was a tomb on caring for dragons. It was Maester Aemon's, a treasured copy and one of the few items he still possessed from his time before joining the Watch. He'd gifted it to Jon, who had taken it quite reluctantly. The man had insisted that he have it, however, citing that it would be of more use to him then on a shelf at the wall with an old blind Maester who couldn't see the words and pictures on the pages.

Ned waved him to sit and followed once the door had been shut. He paused near the fire to stoke it and settled a new log within it.

"I am sending Ser Jory and half a dozen men, along with your Uncle Benjen, to treat with Mance Rayder."

"You are?" Jon asked, jaw dropping open. "Now? I mean I know we talked about perhaps reaching out to him, but . . ." he trailed off as his father settled into his own seat. "I didn't realize it would be so soon."

"When should it have been?" Ned asked, raising an eyebrow. He sighed and shook his head. "I cannot in good conscious allow them to be added to the army of the dead or be lost to the cold of winter. We have limited time to build homes and farms to support their population."

Jon knew that, it was something he had discussed with his father quite often . . . how unprepared the North—and the South—had been for winter, especially after the long wars leading up to and during it.

"The scouts to survey the Gift and New Gift both bring back news of vacant farms, more than previous census' had detailed." Ned ran a hand over his face. "I ordered the bannermen to complete a new census. It seems the last few may have been . . . lacking."

It had been, Jon knew. In some areas, the population had grown, especially around the larger settlements, but in others it had dwindled. Overall, however, the population was much larger than they had thought. Even the hill tribes that kept away from the rest of the Northerners for the most part had a larger population than expected. It was an influx of population that drained supplies when many came to Winterfell's Winter Town after the Bolton's fell in some lives, or at the start of winter in others. They couldn't turn them away, either, the hill tribes shared blood as Arya Flint had married into House Stark just three generations back. Blood ties were very important to northerners.

"I want to bring them south with enough time for them to build something for themselves," Ned continued. "To find a place that fits both their own and our rules and to do so at a pace that will allow the land to support them and the rest of the North to grow used to them."

"The Umbers," Jon said softly.

"Aye," Ned agreed. "Them and others. We've been at war with the wi—Free Folk for a long time. It will take years to soften relations." He glanced over at the fire as a log popped with an explosion of sparks across the hearth. "I also hope that we may be able to preserve the Giants."

"That would be nice . . . there are so few of them left." He grinned sadly, remembering too often how the giants lost their lives in the War for Dawn—or before—their culture but a memory that would be nothing but stories within a generation. "You have a place in mind for them?"

His father nodded. "Several. I plan to offer them a choice, of course."

"Of course." Jon smiled, dropping his gaze to his hands. Lord Stark was more than willing negotiate with the wildlings. It was nice, to know that his father had listened to him and wasn't going to just force the free folk to change to fit in. He was going to offer them choices and mean it. Negotiate without forcing self-serving terms upon them so the they could move freely through the wall. "Thank you," he said softly.

"Thank you," Ned replied. "If even a quarter of what you have told me were to have come to pass in this world . . . If we can stop even a small percentage of it from taking place . . . Negotiating and living beside those we used to fight with will be worth it."

"I can't expect the men of the Watch are happy." He leaned back on his seat, fingers running against the thick cloth of his breaches.

Ned let out a laugh, shaking his head. "No, they aren't, but Lord Commander Mormont has seen things. As have others."

Jon glanced over at his father, wondering if those things included what was no doubt already occurring at Crastor's keep. He was reminded again of another face he would like to save. Gilly. But if he stepped in now little Sam would never be born. It was a new conundrum amid a sea of hundreds for him as he had cared for the child and watched him grow in a dozen or so lives.

"Mormont agrees with me that taking action sooner is better than being caught unprepared," Ned met his eyes again, "plus I think he is thankful for the promise of men, supplies, and assistance in rebuilding other castles to prepare for the worst."

"Some won't agree," Jon pointed out, remembering his own death—the first one and several others—at the hand of black brothers.

"A complete consensus would be impossible," Ned acknowledged, "but he is the Lord Commander. I have insisted that he keep a loyal guard for his own protection. While the Watch is beyond politics they do still owe some loyalty to the Stark family and the North. I believe he will listen to the advice."

Jon hoped the old bear would as well. His death had always hit the Watch hard and left it in chaos, easily snatched up by those seeking power rather than to protect the realm.

"He'll want to meet with you," he said a bit later, "Mance."

"I know. Ser Jory is taking one of Maester Aemon's ravens with him. They will send word to Castle Black if he agrees to a meeting."

"How long are we staying here?" Jon asked, frowning. He had thought they would not be here for much longer.

"Not much longer. We will be leaving for Eastwatch within the sennight. When we get there hopefully an answer will be waiting for us."

"They may just kill them," he ventured. Not all free folk listened before attacking—especially those they called southerners.

"Mormont has had his men spreading word amongst those that have somewhat friendly relations with the Watch since before we left Winterfell. I have hope that Mance Rayder has heard and will want to meet with us." Ned paused for a moment, standing to walk over to his desk where a pitcher and glasses set. He continued as he poured, "I hope that men baring Stark emblems will cause the free folk to pause and speak rather than attack as they so often do with the Nights Watch."

"They may, depending on who they meet." Jon hoped that it wouldn't be the Thenns. "How long will we stay at Eastwatch?"

"It depends," Ned hedged. "If we haven't heard after a time then we will head south to Last Hearth and then home."

A knock sounded at the door.

"Father?"

"Come in, Robb," Ned called, and they both watched as Robb opened the door, eyes landing on Jon before going to his father.

"Is everything all right?"

"Yes," Ned said, setting the glass he was holding down. "How was training today?"

Robb frowned, crossing into the room, Grey Wind and Ghost following at his heals. "Better, I think, but the standards here are not . . . They do not come close to the standards for Winterfell's guard."

"No," Ned agreed, sighing. "They don't. When Jon told me of how the Nights Watch fared," he paused, "I had hoped he was exaggerating or that it would not be so in this world. As that was not the case, it is our duty to help repair the Watch."

"It is nothing like the stories Old Nan tells," Robb said, moving to sit next to Jon on the bench near the fire.

Jon smiled as Ghost pressed his face into his chest and rubbed at the direwolf's ears. "I was shocked the first time I came here. I had believed it was an honor to join the Watch," his eyes darted up to his father's, "and it was but—but the Watch was in tatters and filled with few but criminals sent to live their days in exile at the wall rather than face execution or mutilation as punishment."

"And you didn't go home?" Robb asked.

"No," Jon glanced at his brother, and shook his head. "Father was in Kings Landing with the girls and I—I had too much pride." He hadn't wanted to beg Lady Catelyn to allow him to stay in Winterfell and hadn't wanted to be labeled craven. Grey Wind shouldered his brother aside to press his face against Jon, peering up at him.

"Never let that stop you from coming home again," Robb said softly, wrapping an arm around Jon's shoulders. "I can't imagine a life where I wouldn't welcome you home with open arms."

"It is not shameful to admit when you are wrong."

Jon glanced up at his father's words and smiled, ducking his head. He let out a soft laugh as Grey Wind's tongue kissed his cheek and he settled a hand on top of the wolf's muzzle leaning his forehead down against the wolf for a second before sitting up and nodding to his brother. "All right. If I'm ever in that position again I promise, I'll come home."

"Gods willing you won't be," Robb said, his free hand running through Ghost's fur as the wolf sought attention.

Gods willing.

* * *

 _Robb stared at him, eyes ice blue and face a hard mask. The air around him was cold and Jon could already hear the whispers threading through the crowd. He dropped his eyes as the red-haired man turned, bidding him to follow, voice cold and emotionless._

" _Why?" his brother asked, several minutes later inside the newly proclaimed King's tent. "Why have you come, why now?"_

 _Because father is dead again. Because Arya died as well this time. Because after so many lives trying to get the path at the Wall right something even worse happened. There were so many things he could say, but only one he should voice. "I had to," Jon said, staring at Grey Wind who lay across Robb's bed, eyeing him with narrowed yellow eyes. "I couldn't not."_

" _You swore a vow."_

" _They killed Father and Arya," Jon shot back, voice tight. "Bran and Rickon are gone . . . you trusted Theon when I warned you—"_

" _He was my brother. More so than you were!" Robb strode forward, stopping inches away, anger burning in his eyes. "You abandoned us for the Wall without even saying goodbye and now you abandoned oaths to do what? Help clean up a mess that your abs—"_

" _I_ warned _you," he stared back, voice rising. "I told you he wasn't to be trusted. I sent a letter telling you that Tyrion had nothing to do with the attempt on Bran's life. And now because Tyrion is dead so is Arya and so is Father!" And so too may be hundreds of thousands more in the near future, Jon thought. But that was not something he could give voice to. Robb wouldn't understand. "And because you trusted Theon more than me so are Bran and Rickon. So yes, I had to come."_

" _To make me kill you, too?" Robb turned away, fists clenching. "To make me watch as my own sword steals another family member from me?"_

" _Take my head if you have to," Jon said, voice quieter after a long moment. "You can if you wish. Or you could let me try and free Sansa for you first. Either I die at your sword or I die attempting to free our sister. Your choice."_

" _Why?" Robb asked again, voice breaking at the end. "Why did you come here only to make me choose between your deaths?"_

" _I'm sorry." Jon paced forward, hand hovering over Robb's shoulder. "I cannot change the choices I have already made in this life. I would if I could."_

" _Free Sansa or die." Robb turned back to face him. "You will leave at first light. If you cannot free her you will not return. If you do I will—I will," he shut his eyes tightly, "I will take your head."_

* * *

The party they left Castle Black with was much smaller, consisting of only a couple dozen or so men. Another party of Stark men had gone west to survey the castles along the wall in that direction. Overall their retinue while much smaller was still good enough in size to fair well against the types of obstacles they may face this far North. They were most worried about bands of wildlings ranging past the wall, especially the farther they got from the manned fortifications.

They stayed at least a night in each of the castles, usually several, taking stock of what would be necessary for repairs and making an accurate accounting of how many people could be appropriately garrisoned. One of the master builders that had made the trip to Castle Black was with them, the other had gone with the group to survey the castles on the way to the Shadow Tower. The man was young, having trained for several years under the master builder that oversaw Winterfell's maintenance and construction projects after having completing years of training in the basics and other essentials. He was originally from the North, a third son of a nearby vassal, but had trained in the south in a guild collegiate.

The castles were in varying degrees of disrepair, although each had Lord Stark frowning as he spoke with the builder. For the most part the overall structures seemed in good shape, it was the sections with the most wooden supports or that were open to the weather that needed the most repair. A chunk of ice had fallen from the top of the will along with some old equipment at some point and taken out part of a tower at one of the castles.

While the castles were surveyed, the rest of the group took turns hunting and searching the castles for things of use, looking for anything that the Watch may have left behind. Jon, Robb, and two Stark guards spent the days and evenings exploring when they were at the castles, taking their turn with hunting while on the road, Grey Wind and Ghost trailing with them after game.

Most of the castles were empty, stripped of items and furniture when the Watch abandoned them or perhaps by thieves. But not always, sometimes there were still items of use or furniture left behind.

"I think this was the armory," Robb said, pushing a door open, the top hinge was damaged or rotted away and hung a bit oddly. He shifted the torch he held in his left hand into the room as he peered into the darkness.

"Oh really," Jon asked, leaning over his brother's shoulder, "I wouldn't have guessed." He dodged the attempted kick at his shin they entered the room. His cheek passed close to the torch, a breath of warmth kissing his skin; Robb pulled the torch to the side quickly and then sighed, raising an eyebrow at him.

Jon sent him a sheepish look before taking stock of the room they'd entered.

It was near empty, some broken shields stacked along a wall, blades that had seen far better days settled on hooks or fallen to the floor. Pieces of armor were scattered about in varying conditions.

Luca, one of the guards, entered behind them and, after casting a look about the room, lent down to pick up a helm, tilting it to show a dented hole covering nearly one entire side. "Nothing of use here," he said and dropped it to the ground.

It clanged and bounce-rolled a few feet until it rested against a wooden chest that had seen better days. The slats of wood that made it were warped in a few places, but the on its front still seemed solid.

"What's that?" Robb asked, stepping closer as Luca knelt to examine the chest.

Jon took the torch from his brother and stepped closer to give them enough light to examine it. He watched them check the hinges and lock before using a sword to shimmy the top open, breaking the lock and one of the hinges in the process.

"Well, it isn't gold," Luca mumbled, scowling at the contents.

"Like the Watch would've left gold lyin' round," Wildem scoffed as he shifted the stack of shields with his foot. "They'd have taken any true treasures with them."

"Depends on your definition of treasure," Robb said leaning over the chest and reaching inside. After a moment, he shifted back on his heels and held a small object up towards the torchlight and Jon.

Jon's eyes widened. It was a small and dark black, but the edges glittered green and blue in the flickering light. He stepped closer, handing the torch to Luca as he knelt next to Robb.

The chest was filled to the brim with hundreds more objects of the same size. Little gleaming black arrow heads.

"Dragonglass," he breathed out, lips tugging up into a smile.

* * *

 _Ygritte grinned up at him as she attached another dragonglass arrowhead to a shaft as he worked on fletching another. They were sitting perhaps a foot apart in the large great room, near the hearth where the heat from the fire allowed them to forego their thicker furs. Ghost was lying nearby, eyes closed in a restless sleep, ears quirking at the sounds of people moving around nearby._

 _The supplies they were using was scattered about them, perhaps a chaotic mess to an outsider but they had a system._

 _Jon smiled back and opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted as footsteps entered from the open door. A mop of messy red hair peered at them from the darkness of the corridor, face nervous as he peered at them._

" _Ain't no monsters in here, boy," Ygritte said, beckoning him over with a soft grin. "Just me and your brother." The change in her countenance when it came to children always awed Jon, be it Rickon, little Sam, or any other child that wasn't misbehaving. The soft smile gentled her face in a manner he adored._

" _Rickon, what's the matter?" Jon asked, setting down the arrow he was working on as the little boy padded up to him. Shaggydog had followed him into the room greeting Ghost, who peered at his brother with red eyes at half mast, before curling up next to the white wolf._

" _I had a bad dream," Rickon mumbled, voice still thick with sleepy. "You and 'gritte died and Shaggy ran off and I was alone. Then you came back but you were dead and Bran was with you." Jon pulled the boy down into his lap and ran fingers over the curly red hair. "But Bran was dead, too, and everyone ate me." His voice broke into a sob._

 _Jon exchanged a glance with Ygritte over the top of Rickon's head as he murmured reassurances to the boy. They were at Greyguard castle along with a small force of wildlings and some of King Stannis Baratheon's men. Rickon had been with them for several moons now, he and the wildling Osha had been found near the Nightfort, the woman near death from infection._

 _Rickon hadn't recognized Jon at first, years of distance and the boys young age had confused him. It had been Ghost that had allowed the boy to believe that Jon was his older brother. Since their reunion the boy had stuck by his and Ygritte's side like a burr. He'd refused to leave for the safety of Last Hearth, insisting on staying with them, Shaggydog's reaction forcing the matter._

" _It was just a dream," Jon murmured into Rickon's hair, hand rubbing against his brother's back in soothing circles._

 _Rickon let out another sob, his fingers clenching in Jon's shirt. It was hard to reassure him; the boy had lost so much already. Losing the little family he had left was something he could easily imagine._

" _Dreams aren't nothing to fret over, lil'red," Ygritte said softly, shifting closer._

 _Jon glanced over at her, their eyes meeting for a moment and he managed a small smile. She had taken to him quickly, treating him as a little brother and, with the death of Osha, also taking over somewhat as a mother figure for the young boy. Jon himself found himself filling his father's shoes. It wasn't a role he was used to._

 _She continued, "Dreams are warnings, true, but it's up to you how to react to them. You can either cry about it or do your level best to make sure they won't come true."_

 _Rickon shifted on Jon's lap, turning his head to face her. "How do you do that?" he asked, biting his lip._

" _There's a lot of ways," Jon spoke up then, pulling back from where he'd been resting his chin on his brother's head. "Most importantly you never give up."_

" _Right," Ygritte said, nodding as she quirked a grin at them. "And I can think of a way you can help right now." She used the arrow shaft she'd been working on to poke the little boys side gently._

" _How?" Rickon blinked bleary, red rimmed eyes at her._

" _We have a pile of arrows to make whose tips can pierce the heart of the Others." She leaned in, her blue-grey eyes sparkling in the firelight. "Have you ever put arrows together?"_

 _Rickon shook his head._

" _No?" Ygritte gasped, feigning shock. "Well then," she said, patting the space between her and Jon. "Come on, I'll show you how."_

* * *

Ned stared at the contents for a moment before picking up one of the arrowheads, holding it up to the light. "How many are there?"

"We have yet to do a full accounting," Rob answered, trading a look with Jon, "but we believe there to be around a thousand."

Jon nodded his agreement when their father glanced his way. Near a thousand was accurate if his memory was correct; minus the two dozen Jon had pocketed. With the changes already made he couldn't be sure how the White Walker's time line would play out and he wasn't going to risk all their lives with just Ice and a small dagger on hand—not when other options were available to him.

"Do you have the supplies to rework some of our arrows?" Ned asked, looking up at them again.

"Yes, Father." Robb nodded, glancing at Jon again, _I told you so_ clear in his crystal blue eyes.

He rolled his eyes at his brother and shrugged a little. "We do, Father."

"We can even fletch some new ones without issue, Lord Stark," Luca put in from where he stood near the entrance to the room. He had helped them lug the chest into the room. "I know Lord Jon has been whittling sticks and saving feathers from our catches since we left Castle Black."

He flushed a little at being caught, not that he had been trying to keep his actions a secret. The title also caught him off guard, but it wasn't too surprising. The men on this trip had quite a bit more interaction with Winter and he then most men had with him previously. Their growing respect for him and seeing how Lord Stark treated him had caused swift changes in how he was treated. There had been no whispers of 'bastard' among anyone in the retinue for months.

Jon wasn't sure how to take the change as him not being a bastard wasn't something that should be known at all outside of the family. The men likely had guessed the truth of his parentage, but most should still view him as a bastard seeing how it was common knowledge that Prince Rhaegar had been married to Princess Elia Martell.

"Jon?" Ned asked, raising an eyebrow, question clear without him having to speak it.

He shrugged, gaze landing on the chest. He had known there were caches of dragonglass hidden about the various castles, but not which ones. While Jon had retrieved caches before, he hadn't retrieved this one—or if he had he couldn't remember it.

"It was something to do," Jon answered finally. "I didn't want to waste the feathers either. They were in well enough condition to be of use. Still are."

His father surveyed him for a moment before he nodded and tossed the arrowhead back into the chest. "We'll stay here another night while Trayton checks the rest of the towers for structural damage." Ned sighed and pressed his lips together. "Robb, Jon," he glanced between the two, "I want you to work on making as many new arrows as you have supplies for with the dragonglass. If any of the men wish to assist they can, but I want them searching the other rooms while you work."

Jon could see his brother's shoulders tense as he withheld the groan he certainly wished to release and understood how he felt. Spending an entire day fletching arrows was not something he wished to do either, but it was a task that needed doing.

"Yes, Father," Robb answered for them, none of the hidden annoyance audible.

Later Jon fully expected he would get an earful about not getting to explore the rest of the castle; hopefully his brother would easily accept the truth that Jon hadn't known the dragonglass was there. He was still kicking himself mentally for not knowing. He should have. It was an important detail that he should have known.

* * *

"I was wondering what you were keeping that bag full of feathers for," Robb said later as they settled into a relatively clean room on the ground floor hours later.

The builder had very carefully surveyed and approved living quarters for all of them, ensuring that the rooms were safe and would not collapse or have a risk of the floors above them coming down on their heads. The room had been a bit musty when they entered, but they had opened both windows, one of the shutters completely falling off as they did so, and started a fire, after checking the chimney, to air it out.

Winter was curled up on the hearth, belly full, nose to tail as she snoozed. She had helped start each of the fires and had been rewarded handsomely with a scrap of meet each time she successfully breathed fire onto dried logs, not even requiring kindling.

"I didn't know," Jon admitted quietly. "I didn't remember that they were there." He ran a hand through his curly hair, fingers scratching at his scalp. "I'm not sure if I ever knew that they were. It's not a secret I would have kept."

Robb frowned, shooting a look at him. "What were you gathering all that stuff for then?"

"Practice. To avoid waste," Jon said, repeating what he'd said earlier in essence. He pulled out the bag he'd stuffed the arrow shafts in and tossed it onto the ground nearby. The clatter caused Ghost and Grey Wind to lift their heads. They were laying on the furs Robb and Jon had setup on one side of the room to share. This castle wasn't one that had usable furniture remaining.

Robb eyed him for a long moment. "That can't be the only reason," he said, eyes narrowing.

Jon sighed and glanced down at the bag that carried the rest of the arrow making supplies he'd brought with him. "I—I have a friend among the Free Folk," he answered finally and then winced. "Or I did in other lives." He settled onto the floor and began to set out the supplies, organizing them in a rote way.

"And they like arrows?"

"She was an expert marksman, better than near anyone else I have ever seen wield a bow," he said flushing, eyes dropping to stare at his hands. "It's silly but—but I thought, if we happened to see her, that I might give her some arrows."

"Some dragonglass arrows?" Rob asked, dropping down onto the floor near him.

"I told you I didn't remember about the dragonglass before we found it."

"But after we did." Robb poked his leg. "I know you took some arrowheads."

Jon shrugged, reaching out to grab some feathers from the bag.

"You liked her," Robb said after a moment of silence. "No. You _loved_ her before, didn't you?"

"Every—" Jon swallowed thickly, "—every life I knew her." And perhaps every other life, too. Loving someone didn't just go away when they did. Romantic, familiar, or the love of friends. It stuck with you, no matter how long it had been. The taste of it thick and sometimes sweet and sometimes sour every time you thought of it. Jon had loved and been loved by many over his lifetimes. Some stuck with him stronger than others.  
Even in the lives they were enemies and hated each other, he still loved them.

"So you thought to give her them as a gift?" Robb asked quietly.

His eyes slid shut and he let out a laugh. "She'd make fun of me for this, I think."

"Why?"

"Because that's how she was—is. She'd jape and mock me, but I think she'd take them anyway." Jon smiled, glancing up at his brother from behind his curls. "She'd probably say something about how she thought southron lads brought their ladies golden jewelry, sparkling with jewels or silk dresses and ask me where hers is. But the arrows would please her more than anything."

"Huh." Robb snatched one of the arrowheads from satchel they'd brought in from the other room, turning it over in his hand.

"What?" Jon asked, raising an eyebrow.

"She sounds like she kept you on your toes," Robb said and then met his eyes. "Like she was able to drag you out of your silences. I hope I get to meet her one day." He snatched up a few other items. "Will you tell me more of her?"

Sighing, Jon looked away, eyes drifting towards Winter. "The person I would speak of doesn't truly exist, yet," he thought of all the changes they would hopefully be making, "and may never."

"So?" Robb pushed at his shoulder and settled a hand around the nape of his neck. "I wish to hear of the woman who stole my brother's heart in _multiple_ lives." He was grinning when Jon looked back at him.

Jon stared at him for a moment and then chuckled a little, focusing back on the arrow shaft he was working on. "Wouldn't you rather hear about the women that stole _your_ heart?"

"My—Who—" Robb drew his hand back, eyes widening as he flushed. "I don't know her yet, do I?"

Biting his cheek, Jon shook his head. "Not yet."

There was a momentary silence as Robb stared at him before drawing in a shaky breath. "Perhaps it is not such a good idea to speak of might have beens." He turned back to the arrowhead he had dropped into his lap. "At least not _romantic_ ones."

"I suppose you're right," Jon nodded, glad for the deflection, grinning behind a curtain of curls in the dim light. "It wouldn't be fair to set unfair expectations."

"Right," Robb murmured thoughtfully. "Unfair expectations."

* * *

 _Robb stared at the brunette woman before him, eyes with a focus Jon knew from many lifetimes with his brother. He danced his gaze between the pair._

" _Your grace," Margaery Tyrell dipped into a graceful bow._

" _Lady Tyrell," Robb returned, stepping forward to take her hand and place a gentle kiss upon it._

 _She smiled sweetly at him, lips tugging up at the sides and Jon was nearly taken in by her beauty as well. He'd known her well, over a dozen lives, and while her temperament was foremost sincere, she was also well trained by her Grandmother in how to play the game._

 _He watched the interaction, eyes taking in the details of the party before them. It wasn't often that the Tyrell's sought out the Starks. But perhaps the early death of Renly Baratheon alongside Lord Stark at the hand of King Joffrey had spurned it. Eyes flickering over the Tyrell party something had him frowning. Something or someone was missing._

" _The Lannisters have stolen my brother Loras from us just as they stole your father and hold your sisters captive in Kings Landing," Lady Margaery was saying when Jon focused back onto the conversation. "My lord father and elder brother have sent me with an offer of alliance. We cannot let the Lannisters get away with these slights."_

" _No," Robb agreed. "We cannot." He gazed over his shoulder, eyes flickering first to Jon and then to the nearby tent. "I suggest we take this discussion out of the cold. I assume you have full rein to make decisions on behalf of your family?"_

" _Most," Margaery acknowledged and then stepped forward, taking the arm that Robb proffered. "A few may require use of a raven or a swift rider to confirm, but I am sure that we can come to an accord quite easily." She smiled sweetly up at him._

 _Robb returned the smile, leading her out of the damp weather._

 _Jon glanced down at Grey Wind and Ghost who had stayed by his side as the pair passed, several guards from each household trailing behind them. He was quite glad that he'd managed influence the negotiations with the Frey's not to include Robb's hand in marriage this time._

 _He winced then, thinking of his own wife, one of Lord Frey's bastard daughters—albeit one of the prettier ones who'd taken after her mother rather than her father. They'd been wed immediately before the army crossed the Twins under the agreement that, following the war, Jon and Waella would be legitimized and given a hold of their own. Lady Stark had hinted at Moat Cailin during the negotiations, but he doubted she would allow it._

 _Arya's hand had also been promised to one of his sons, much to Jon's disgust. It had always bothered him how Lady Stark had been so willing to promise_ two _of her children to one house. No matter the desperation of the move it had set a dangerous precedence and left little room for other alliances to be made through marriage._

 _He caught sight of Lady Stark then, staring off after her son, lips set in a tight line, eyebrows creased with worry. She caught him looking after a moment and glared, stalking off after her son._

* * *

It took over a moon for them to reach Eastwatch at the pace they took, stopping for several nights at every castle and along the way to hunt and inspect sections of the wall. The trip had been more than worth it for they had found several caches of dragonglass—arrowheads, spearheads, and daggers—along the way. They had also gotten a very clear accounting for how much effort, supplies, and funds would be required to repair each of the castles and man them accurately. The numbers were somewhat close, especially in the most recent of the abandoned castles, to what the Night Watch's records stated, but in a few they were rather off, especially where some towers were in such disrepair that the number of men that could be garrisoned there at the current time was much less than previously recorded.

Jon had been able to look over the figures and was very glad that his father had insisted on this. It would be both easier and harder to manage by his calculations. The Watch at their low level of numbers and lack of support from the kingdoms would not be able to do this on their own. Perhaps not even with just the North at their side for the North had a lot of other things they needed to do to prepare for the future to survive.

It was refreshing to have data from a source that was well trained and could be considered wholly accurate. He tried not to think of how well this data could serve him in future lives.

The sun was setting when they rode up to the castle and port that made up Eastwatch. It was a glorious display of color that had them pause on a rise a few miles from the castle, Winter swirling in the air high above them. So high she was barely a spec amidst the clouds.

"I can't remember ever seeing the sea before," Robb mused beside him. He had though, Jon knew, on trips with their father to visit their bannermen when they were younger. Jon had usually been left behind. "It looks like it goes on forever."

"Aye," Jon agreed softly. But it didn't. Somewhere across the narrow sea was Essos, his Aunt and Uncle, and, perhaps, his half-brother.

"I wonder if Father would let us take a ship to White Harbor."

"Hope not," Jon winced, continuing at Robb's raised brow. "Ghost has never been keen on traveling by boat. I doubt Grey Wind or Storm," if the wolf returned to their father's side he thought but didn't say, "would be much better."

"I sense a story I don't want to know," Robb said as they spurred their horses back on.

"You probably don't," he agreed. "I don't and I was there to clean up the mess."

The sea was rough when they arrived, a storm was said to be arriving within a day of their arrival. Cotter Pyke met them gruffly, accepting them into the Castle and providing them rooms. Maester Harmune was at his side and went with Pyke and their father to meet privately.

They rested for two days before a raven arrived from Castle Black and with it news that Mance Rayder had agreed to meet with Lord Stark and had decided on a location just over a sennight travel from Eastwatch-by-the-Sea.

Eastwatch hadn't as much space as Castle Black had to provide them living quarters and Jon and Robb had ended up sharing a room with their father. Luckily it was a room with two good sized windows and plenty of space for Ghost and Grey Wind to curl up.

Winter, however, had found the hearth to be lacking in size for her slowly growing form and had ended up half sleeping on Ghost one night, inciting a minor, playful tussle between the two in the middle of the night that had ended up with Grey Wind jumping upon his human—who was sharing a bed with Jon—seeking refuge and waking everyone up.

The evening before they were due to leave found them packing in preparation for the trip. They would be leaving a few things behind as they had plans to return following the meet.

"Father," Jon started as he folded his clothes, freshly laundered, to pack away. "I believe that Robb is unhappy with being left behind."

Ned sighed, pausing to look over at him. "I have spoken to him regarding the decision. He understands why I cannot take him along with us."

Of course Robb understood, but it didn't mean that he wasn't feeling left out. Much like Jon often had when he was younger. But Lord Stark couldn't take his heir with him to meet with a long hostile force, no matter that it was for peace talks, as they couldn't guarantee that other free folk clans wouldn't take the opportunity to attack the northern lord in retaliation for long held grudges.

"If something happens to us it will be up to him to continue our work," Ned said after a moment, voice soft. "The North will be in his hands."

Jon nodded, and dropped his gaze back to his pack, shoving a pair of tightly folded breaches into its depths. Robb was a capable leader and would be able to handle things should their father pass, but knowing the reasons behind Lord Stark's decision could not quell every spark of jealousy.

Earlier Jon had found his brother on the docks, staring out at a ship as it drifted away from port, sunlight glittering across the waves. He'd been tossing a handful of pebbles into the sea.

"I won't even know if you're alive for weeks," Robb had said after a long silence as he tossed another pebble, watching it plunk yards out.

Jon held out his hand. "The not knowing is always the hardest," he acknowledged softly.

"How do you handle it?" Robb asked dropping one of the stones into Jon's hand.

He held it up to examine, running fingers of the smooth edges. "You have faith. And you focus on the task at hand rather than the unknown." Jon smiled a bit, tossing the stone a few feet up and catching it again. "You take one day, one moment at a time."

"I wish I could go with you," Robb said as he prepared to toss another stone. "I know, I know why I cannot, but I wish I could. And not just because I want to be a part of the talks—but because I want to see the world beyond the wall." He tilted a sad smile towards Jon as he carefully let the stone go, angling it to allow it to skip across the gentle waves. "I want to see if that wildling girl you talked about is there and see you stammer your way through meeting her."

"We'll go north one day," Jon said, watching the ripples dissipate. "Perhaps Winter will take us."

They were silent for a while, taking turns skipping rocks across the water until Jon held the last stone, a lumpy pitted mess that wasn't suited to bouncing across the tension of the water's surface. He handed it back to his brother who stared at it, turning it over between his fingers.

"Sometimes I wish I wasn't the heir," Robb admitted softly.

Jon looked up at him, staring.

"I used to watch you sometimes and wonder what it would be like if I was the bastard," Robb chuckled dryly. "I was jealous of the freedoms I thought you had." He shook his head. "That was before I truly understood how things were for you. All I saw was the mountain of Father, Mother, and everyone else's expectations for me."

"You were born for this," Jon said after a while. "You are a good leader. You always have been, for as long as I can remember."

"I had to be."

"No," Jon shook his head, bumping his shoulder against Robb's. "There are different types of leaders. You may feel like you must lead, but you are good at it. You're much better at strategy than I ever will be and I've had years to practice."

"A military leader then."

"Not just that," Jon shook his head. "You, like father, have seen things I haven't and you don't even know the whole of things."

"I'm scared to know." Robb stood, fingers wrapped tightly around the rough stone.

"Good," Jon said looking up at him. "Never lose that fear. I haven't."

Robb stared out after the boat which was slowly disappearing over the horizon. Tossing the stone a little into the air, he gripped it once again and, nodding, he drew back and threw it as far and hard as he could.

"If you don't come back," Robb said then as they watched the splash and mini tidal waves it made as it crashed into the water. "I'm not sure what I shall do."

"Father left notes. I did as well," Jon said softly. "If something happens to us you go on. If possible I will send Winter to you. I know she'll go if I wish it."

Robb let out a laugh at that. "And I would spend my days bribing her, wouldn't I?"

"Probably," Jon grinned.

"What would I do with a fat dragon that wouldn't let me ride her?" Robb mused looking down at Jon. "I guess she might protect Winterfell if we proved a suitable food provider."

"It is her home and she does like you. You and Arya, especially. Sansa and Bran, too, a bit. She adores Rickon."

"Yes," Robb acknowledged holding his hand out. "But we're not the blood of the dragon. We're just your blood."

Jon took his hand, allowing his brother to pull him up. "I like to believe that would be enough for her."

* * *

He was brought out of the memory by his father settling a hand on his shoulder. Jon glanced up and smiled at him. "Robb was wondering if we might be traveling to White Harbor when we return."

"I was considering it," Ned admitted and glanced down at Ghost as the young direwolf whined a little. Normally Ghost was near silent. He raised an eyebrow.

"Ghost isn't too fond of ship travel," Jon said chuckling a little at the downcast look on his companion's features. "I'm not sure how he will handle it and he's been on ships every few lives so he is used to adapting to it quickly. I'm not sure how the other wolves would handle it."

"I have a feeling Storm will not be enthused," his father mused, staring off towards the open window. "Wolves aren't meant for the sea."

"If he had sea legs I might have traveled more often," Jon admitted as he closed his pack, lacing it tightly.

"Do you want to?"

"In a few lives," he looked up, meeting his father's gaze. "This one . . . here and now? No. I cannot imagine leaving you and Robb . . . the rest of the family."

"And if telling me had not gone well?"

Jon pulled in a harsh breath and looked away. "I think—I think I may have—I may have gone to Essos," he said quickly. "My last life was still fresh in my mind when I spoke with you. And I—I died," he squeezed his eyes shut, "I died in my brother's arms. He was the last thing I saw."

"Your brother . . . Aegon?"

Jon nodded, swallowing thickly. "Yes." His hands tightened in the fabric of the pack. "If you had not reacted well I would have run to find him. I would have gone to him if it was the real Aegon and not a mummer," he said and stilled when his father wrapped an arm around his shoulders and pulled him close.

Letting go of the back he wrapped his arms around his father's back, pressing his face against the warm leather of the northern style tunic.

"I'm glad things didn't turn out that way," Ned said a few minutes later. "I know that he's your family. It's understandable that you would want to know and see him again. But I'm glad that you didn't feel you had to run away."

"So am I," he agreed, trying to ignore the wetness on his cheeks.

"If there was an easy way for us to find him," Ned continued, voice low, "and to tell if the boy is truly your brother . . . would you wish for it?"

"I can tell you where he's likely to be," Jon said softly, pulling away. "I can tell you the name of the ship and the crew . . . but for someone other than myself to tell the difference between Aegon and the other boy." He shook his head. "They are so alike, but in the end so different. I don't know if others could, the web of lies surrounding him is so thick."

"Would you wish us to try?"

Jon bit his lip and rubbed his face against his sleeve. "I don't wish to risk the North for dreams and wishes."

His father gently squeezed his shoulder, looking him in the eye for a moment longer before nodding and turning back to his own pack.

* * *

 _Jon stared at the boy in front of him, his mind still a rolling mess of confusion. It had been during his last life that he had met Aegon for the first time. His brother had arrived at Dragonstone with Daenerys and her dragons, their combined force rallying many lords behind them. As the King in the North he'd gone to treat with them at their request._

 _They'd fought together and for the first time the fight for Dawn hadn't seemed quite as desperate as before. The Lannisters had fallen at their combined strengths along with the Vale, the Reach, Dorne, and the Stormlands. Then they had turned to the true threat, three dragon riders burning wights to ashes and decimating the Night King's army._

 _This, this was not Aegon. Not the Aegon he knew._

 _This boy had the true backing of the Golden Company—they wanted a Blackfyre on the throne, even if it meant labeling them a Targaryen. And Jon had made the mistake of letting his identity be known. Not his identity of a Stark, but that of Rhaegar's son._

 _Now he knew why he hadn't heard anything of Daenerys in near half a year. She was gone and this boy's forces had taken her out. They claimed at first to him via Raven that she had refused her nephew's right and had attacked him, a fact that had shocked Jon and spurred him to go meet with his brother and find out what had caused such a drastic difference from one life to the next when overall Jon hadn't sought to change much in this life._

 _That had been a mistake._

 _And now, chained and beaten, kneeling before the chopping block he knew that those claims had been falsified. If only he had been able to come into contact with Rhaegal or Viserion . . . but no. Drogon was nowhere to be found and the two remaining dragons were chained and guarded heavily much of the time and the boy had been riding Viserion._

 _This boy did still have dragon blood, enough magic in his blood that the dragons did respond to him—no matter his lineage._

" _Any last words?" The executioner asked, a sell-sword Jon didn't know._

 _He stared up at the boy who had his brother's name. "You would kill your only family?"_

" _I order the death of a man who sought to commit treason and usurp my rights," the false Aegon answered. For all his calm demeanor Jon wondered if he really wanted to do this and how he let him self be led without question so different from how his brother had interacted with those around himself._

 _Perhaps he wasn't behind this and didn't want to kill Jon, but he was going along with it. Hadn't even bothered to question the fact that evidence had been presented within a day of Jon's arrival to show how the "King in the North" was plotting to take the Iron Throne. Jon wasn't sure if he should or would ever attempt to find out the truth of the matter or even want to bother. This boy was under the thumb of the Golden Company and their manipulations whether he knew it or not._

 _Not after the visit he'd received last night in the dungeon. If it weren't for one of the Golden Companies commanders coming to gloat that finally, finally the Targaryen line would be extinguished and the Blackfyre's would have their day Jon may have doubted. But the man had gloated and ranted at him, stroking his own ego and easily giving in to answer Jon's questions on the matter. If it weren't for him Jon might have wasted multiple lives trying to work with this boy and the people playing him like a harp._

" _You are surrounded by liars," Jon said as he turned his head to stare down at the ground. "I wish you luck in the wars to come,_ _ **cousin**_ _."_

* * *

Before they had left Eastwatch, Ned has set Robb to taking stock of what the outpost was in need of and how each vessel that belonged to them was faring. In addition to that he had requested a full auditing of supplies and records, wishing to keep his eldest as busy as possible and get as much done in order to know how best to provide aid.

The place Mance Rayder and Ser Jory had settled upon was a sennight from Eastwatch, far enough away that reinforcements would be a while coming and that the Stark party would be easily spotted by free folk scouts in the area. The first night they made camp, Storm loped quietly up to the fire, startling a few of the men and acting as if she hadn't been gone since they'd arrived at Castle Black.

Ghost had greeted his mother enthusiastically, his normal quiet and dignified demeanor disappearing in favor of tumbles and happy whines. After a few minutes of playful tussling with her son, Storm wandered over to the fire and lay next to Ned, her head taking up as much space as Jon did. He watched as his father ran his fingers over her muzzle, caressing the darker grey markings above her eyes.

"Do you think Mance will agree to the terms?" Ned asked quietly a few nights later as they sat before the fire, voice barely carrying to where Jon sat nearby.

Jon tore a piece of dried meat apart and stared at the fire as he offered bits to Winter. Ghost padded over and dropped down in front of him, watching his mother who was tearing into an elk shoulder a ways off. He'd already finished the hare he'd been given. "The terms are all reasonable," he said after mulling it over, "but still leave room for negotiation on both sides." He looked up. "Respect will be the hardest part of the equation . . . for the Free Folk titles mean nothing. Respect is earned."

"They agreed to meet based upon my title."

"Aye," Jon nodded. "They know titles matter to _us_. And Mance was a southroner before he defected. He understands that they will need to work with the system at least somewhat."

"They respected you," Ned said thoughtfully a few minutes later.

"And I fought for them. Died for them, sometimes." He winced shifting a little as Ghost settled down against his feet and shins. "In some lives I ran away and lived with them as soon as I could. I learned their ways and made it my goal to save as many as I could." Setting his plate down at his side, he sighed. Winter eyed it with open disappointment as it was empty. Jon spread his fingers wide over his knees. "In the lives they didn't kill me I still had to earn their trust and respect. We won't even have an ounce of that here . . ."

"But?"

"But you and your honor are not . . . unknown . . . beyond the wall," Jon smiled slightly. "I believe at the very least they will trust you to keep your word."

A commotion from nearby had them glancing up. One of the men was returning, his clothes soaked halfway up his body, several hares slung over his back. His companion was striding next to him with a makeshift bandage on his arm, a rope slung around his shoulder, a scowl on his face, and his arms and upper body soaked through.

The group they were traveling with was a dozen strong, plus Jon and his father. All were highly skilled, trusted guards with experience in the harshest of winter climates. Luca strode up, his face carefully schooled in an attempt not to laugh and relieved them of their catch, directing them to the man who was serving as their healer.

"We should reach the agreed upon location tomorrow," Ned said, turning back to the fire. "I want you to stay back with the men at first. And Winter," he glanced over at the dragon who was dozing with her head in Jon's lap, "she needs to stay out of sight as well."

"I figured." Jon sighed, rubbing her fingers down her spine, causing her tail to curl a bit. "She's going to spend the day flying and exploring."

"Will she be able to keep out of sight?"

"I believe so." Jon worried his lip, meeting his father's eyes. "They likely already know of her. Don't lie if they ask."

Ned frowned and then breathed out a sigh. "Wargs."

"Aye," Jon confirmed, raising his eyes to the darkening sky. "They have wargs of various types, but birds of prey are rather common companions."

"And able to keep track of us from a long ways off."

Jon nodded as his fingers circled over tiny spines beginning to poke out of Winter's back.

"It is a handy ability," Ned said as he burrowed his fingers into the thick fur at the back of Storm's neck.

Like Robb, their father had been working on the connection he had with Storm since Jon had first broached the subject. Idly, Jon wondered how deep it had grown and if Ned had been watching through her eyes during the time they'd been separated. If he had followed her trek north of the Wall.

"It is," he agreed. "Perhaps some may be employable in the future." During whatever wars may arise—for Jon was sure some conflict would occur to the south. He hadn't lived a single life where the Lannisters and Baratheons didn't resort to some level of battle. "We may be able to locate other families with the ability in the North proper."

"The stigma against it will make that difficult," Ned said after a long moment, "but I had thought of that. For the ability to be so strong in your generation . . ."

"With all our southern blood," Jon put in when his father paused.

Ned nodded, eyes drifting to where Ghost's foot kicked up a small cloud of dust as he dreamed. "Other families may have retained the abilities or even others," Jon thought of Jojen Reed's gifts as his father continued, "and just not have had the opportunity to develop them."

He bit his lip and turned his gaze to the fire. Bran's gift for warging into Summer had already been strong when they'd left Winterfell for the North. They would have to deal with his other gifts and perhaps where his path in life was to take him soon . . . his abilities couldn't go untrained. Eventually the Three Eyed Raven would seek to have the boy journey to him as he had in every life. Even in the lives Bran hadn't fallen.

Resisting the call had never worked out well for the young boy or for the North as a whole.

Jon sighed and ran a hand through his curls, startling when Winter tried to climb fully into his lap. She really was getting too big to be held like this. Her head bumped his chin as she let out a chuffing-purr, and he smiled down at her. Ghost tilted his head back, looking at them upside down. He had time to figure it out later and people who could help him with the logistics of it all.

And, if the Three Eyed Raven was patient enough, perhaps Jon could fly his brother to the man rather than rely on the Reed children and Hodor to get him there.

* * *

The sun was high when they crested the top of the ridge leading down to the valley where they were to meet the free folk party. There was a couple dozen tents set up, varying in size near a stream that bent its way down the middle of the valley, water moving fast enough that it wasn't frozen over. Most of the tents were rough made, belonging to the various clans. Two were the sturdy type made in Winterfell—large ones designed to hold eight apiece.

Jon brought his horse to a stop, eying the surrounding area and camp below. Ghost nudged his foot with his muzzle before striding forward. His friend was right. It was too late to go back now; they would have to trust that the Free Folk honored the truce.

He urged his horse forward again, allowing those behind him to follow suit. They had to go the long way around the valley, the only safe route for their horses to gain access. As they drew closer Jon realized that every man and woman he caught sight of was of fighting age—spearmen and spearwives. The clans were not taking any risks with this meeting.

Distantly he felt something drop inside his heart. He knew it had been a long shot, but he had hoped to see Ygritte again, even if from a distance; to know that she was safe and alive in this life. But many of the men and women he'd lived beside had not been leaders until more recent times. The White Walkers and their wights had decimated clans in the years leading up to the Free Folk marching onto the wall. He wasn't even sure of Tormund's status among the clans at this point in time.

Several Free Folk met them a few minutes from camp along with Uncle Benjen and Ser Jory. Jon didn't recognize any of them, but he was still a ways away from them, stopped a few horse lengths back from where his father brought his horse to a stand.

"Lord Stark." Ser Jory was the only one to approach. He was unarmed, but still wore his Stark Armor and the set of furs he'd set out with on the trek.

In comparison, the wildlings wore their own armor and hides but also had spears, axes, and daggers at their side. Only one had a sword dangling at a man's hip. They were close enough to hear the conversation, but far enough away that they were not an immediate threat.

That wasn't to say they weren't threatened. Jon knew without a shadow of doubt that they were surrounded by Free Folk scouts—had been for hours.

"Ser Jory," Ned acknowledged him, his face stoic. "How are the men faring?"

"Well," Jory glanced to Jon for a moment before turning back to his liege. "Only a couple of scuffles have occurred between our men and the wildlings. Nothing worse than bruised bodies and egos to show for it, luckily. The fights have been broken up quickly each time."

"Good." Ned nodded, adjusting his grip on his reins. "And you've all been treated well?" he asked after a pause.

"Well," Ser Jory grinned, "I would say we have been hostages, but they've treated us well. Akin to Theon."

* * *

 _The wildling man, Jon thought his name might be Ordis, but he wasn't sure, eyed him, blue eyes following his every movement. The man had striking gold-blonde hair and a redish tint to his beard, but Jon was too busy trying to keep his mind from wandering with a haze of pain and Ghost's anger swirling in the back of his mind._

 _They had picked him up a two day walk from the Fist of the First Men, traveling in a vague north-east direction. He'd been shot with one arrow, a bolt to his leg aimed to cripple him and allow his capture._

 _It had been Ygritte who shot him._

" _I'm not a crow," Jon said, yet again, voice calm and dispassionate._

" _Maybe not," the wildling man said, tearing into a piece of dried meat, baring his white crooked teeth, "but you're not Free Folk either."_

" _Not with those fancy clothes and that horse ya had," Ygritte put in, stalking back into camp. One of their men was trailing behind her, leading Jon's horse by its reins. They'd had to go chasing after it after startling it when they ambushed him._

 _Jon stared up at her from behind dark curls as she crossed to him. It had only been their connection in previous lives that had kept Ghost from attacking her. Jon had barely been able to make the direwolf take off into the hills before its life was truly in danger._

" _You're a Southroner for sure." Ygritte knelt next to him, face suddenly very close to his own._

 _Jon jerked back, gritting his teeth at the sudden pain from the cascade of muscles shifting away from her. She 'tsked' at him and pulled away the furs they'd dumped on his lap earlier to bare the injury to her eyes._

 _He blushed scarlet, glancing away. They hadn't spared him much modesty in the process of getting to the wound to treat it._

 _Ygritte prodded at the bandage for a moment before pulling it away and baring the wound. She was an excellent shot, having missed his artery, but it had pierced his muscles in a way that made it intensely painful._

" _I'm from the North," Jon insisted stubbornly, jaw clenching tightly as he tried to shift away from her._

" _You're from south of the Wall. That makes you a southroner," Ordis said._

" _May have to use a hot dagger," Ygritte called over to Ordis over her shoulder. "The bleedin's almost stopped, but could be better."_

 _Jon winced at the comment, unsure if it would work well on his skin in this life. It was a noticeable downside when he was injured during the lives he was fireproof._

" _He's your prisoner," Ordis told her; he had wanted to kill Jon outright. "Do what ya will."_

 _Ygritte 'hmmed' and slipped the bandage back over the wound, tugging it tight and causing him to let out a sharp hiss. When he opened his eyes a moment later she was peering at him, blue-grey eyes narrowed. "What are ya doin' all the way up here, boy?"_

 _He met her gaze for a long moment. "I've got nowhere else to go," he said finally and then let his eyes drift over her shoulder into the darkness. "I was to take the black but . . . it's not what I want out of this life," Jon continued honestly. "I figured one of us, at least, should be happy."_

 _She frowned, eyes shifting to follow his gaze and then froze._

" _You have a companion out here, boy?" Ordis asked, standing._

 _Jon turned back to stare across the fire at him. "Just one," he admitted, hoping he wasn't making a mistake, but his hand had been forced on this._

" _He won't hurt you," he said softly, attention shifting back to Ygritte._

 _She was still staring into the darkness, eyes locked on red eyes that gleamed in the dim firelight. Her hands were still upon his thigh, above his wound. Her grip tightened slightly. He winced as pain sparked out from the wound._

" _His name is Ghost," Jon said as the direwolf padded slowly into sight. "He's my companion. My partner."_

* * *

Lord Stark dismounted, handing his reins up to Jon who had paced his horse forward at his father's direction. A moment later he handed Jon his sword and dagger, barely hesitating. Ghost brushed against him and Storm paced up, coming to a stop at his side. Jon stared down at the two wolves as his father turned away, walking a bit to stand with Ser Jory and Benjen just out of earshot.

Storm had followed her human and paused a few feet from the group, eyes locking with Benjen's wolf, Midnight. He watched as they greeted each other hesitantly at first before brushing their heads together, seemingly recognizing each other.

A hawk screeched overhead and Jon squinted up at the blue sky, wondering if it belonged to any of the wargs he had met before. If it even belonged to a warg. He'd known many, although there was always a core few that showed up in Mance's main force or that worked with Ygritte or Tormund.

Jon took a deep breath of the brisk air, enjoying the dryer quality it had in comparison to the air at Castle Black even though the cold bit deeper at his skin and lungs here.

"Jon, Luca," Ned said as he strode back to them. "They will let you keep your arms and setup camp here. I bid you to wait until dark before getting too settled. I hope to come to enough an understanding we will be able to join the camp proper along with the rest of our men before then."

"Yes, my lord," Luca acknowledged the request as Ned turned his focus fully onto Jon.

"Storm will be staying here with you and Ghost for now."

"Father—" Jon's brows lifted in surprise.

"She's a weapon," Ned said, stopping him before he could reason out a protest. "She's also still wild for all that she is bonded to me." He shook his head, hand settling on Jon's knee. "She's a weapon I can barely control and I cannot bring her into a meeting where tempers may flare with nerves as they are."

Jon shut his mouth, bit his cheek, and nodded.

"You remember what we discussed?" Ned asked, fingers tightening on his knee.

Jon nodded. He did, not that he planned to listen to the commands his father had drilled into him over the past few nights. "It will not come to that."

Ned smiled, ducking his chin a little and loosened his grip, patting gently once, twice and then dropping his arm to his side. "I will see you this evening. Make sure the men stay calm."

"I will, my lord," Jon said and watched as his father turned and followed the free folk warriors into the camp, Uncle Benjen and Ser Jory at his side. Midnight also stayed behind, staring after them for a few minutes before trotting off into the countryside.

* * *

One of the men had started a fire going, the process taking much longer than it should have leaving the man cursing a storm under his breath. Ghost had sat watching him, ears quirking at the curses as the man glanced forlornly occasionally to the sky. Winter had spoiled everyone where fire was concerned; always happy to flex her growing prowess at breathing light and warmth for everyone—especially when a treat was generally promised to her should she do so without burning anyone or anything that shouldn't catch fire.

Jon smiled a little to himself as he watched, carefully rubbing his horse and then his father's horse down, checking for any signs of injury or lameness. It was heartening, the fact that so many Stark men—many of whom had fought in the rebellion—seemed to accept him so readily. And Jon knew they had to have guessed by now, at least most of them, that he carried Targaryen lineage and what that meant. But as of yet no one had insulted him or looked down on him for it.

If anything, he had been treated better since Winter's existence had become a widely known secret among the loyal ranks. Many had even taken to tagging 'Lord' to the front of his name, giving him nearly the same courtesy afforded to Robb, Bran, and Rickon when they were addressed. Before it would have been a mockery, but now he could sense the respect and it shocked him every time he heard it.

Storm was settled nearby, ears quirking as she listened to the men moving around her. The direwolf's gaze hadn't wavered from where it was set, firmly in the direction of the free folk tents; her chin rested resolutely on her paws.

Ghost seemed to grow bored after the man had finally caught the fire ablaze and settled near his mother. He was working his way through an elk bone one of the men had tossed him from a catch they'd carried with them from the previous day's hunt.

When the sun began to near the tips of the far-off peaks, still an hour or so from sundown, Lord Stark and Ser Jory finally returned. Jon and Luca met him a few paces from their temporary camp.

"We've managed to reach a tentative agreement," Lord Stark announced looking between them. "Mance Raydar is to speak with all of the assembled clan representatives this evening and we will continue the talks tomorrow."

Jon couldn't help the small grin that grew on his face. Something was going right. He only hoped it wouldn't all fall apart as things were so apt to do.

His father had seemed to relax a bit as he continued, focusing on Ser Jory and Luca. "Arrange the men, we will be moving to join the rest of our men on the south side of the camp."

"Yes, Lord Stark," Luca said, Ser Jory also acknowledging the order.

As the pair moved off, Ned sighed and turned back to his son. "They are aware of Winter. Mance and his men wish to see her."

Jon tensed, lips tightening into a firm line. "She won't follow them. Not the wargs. No one but me." And maybe Robb if she followed his last wish as Ghost sometimes did attaching himself to Sansa, Arya, Bran, or even very rarely Sam, Daenerys, or Aegon in Jon's final moments.

"Mance knows," Ned said firmly. "I made it clear and he, and even some of the clansmen, are aware of the history of dragons." He sighed roughly. "One flat out asked me where I found a Targaryen woman to steal during the rebellion."

"Not in that manner, I'm guessing?" Jon asked and for all the worry rushing through his system he couldn't help but grin a little.

"No," Ned chuckled. "Not in those words." He shook his head at the memory of what was no doubt a crass and disgusting descriptive question. "Mance gave me his word that no one would try and take her from us. That he would make it clear the dragon would be more apt to burn anyone that touched her or you to a crisp."

Jon smiled, ducking his head a bit, imagining the conversation. "When do they want to see her?"

"In the morning," Ned said, smiling back tiredly. "I believe he hopes she will help convince the clans that fighting won't be worth it. Not with so much effort still needed to build up a large enough force to be a true threat to the Wall and the North."

"I hope we can convince them." Jon turned to walk beside his father, watching as the men begin to repack what little they had undone. "Running south may seem like a good idea, but it would never work."

"Desperation leads to taking risks one would not normally take."

* * *

It hadn't taken long to setup with the aid of the men already in the camp, and a few pointed suggestions by the friendlier free folk who watched them from a short distance away. Most of which were delivered with a crass, harsh tongue and some laughter. Sun had set quickly as they finished setting their tents. Utilizing a torch, they had restarted the fire at their new campsite quickly enabling the men on meal duty to heat up a quick stew.

Winter glided into camp not long after food was dished out, so quiet that she startled Jon when she alighted behind him, stalking forward to breathe a hot breath of air against his ear. He dropped his bowl into the dirt, much to the delight of Ghost.

Sighing, Jon patted her nose gently unable to retain any amount of annoyance at her antics. She was just trying to ease his nerves. A moment later one of the guards held a new bowl out to him and Luca had stridden over, a bowl of medium-rare meat in hand.

"Here," the man said, holding it out to him from the side opposite to the dragon, "we thought she might be hungry."

"Thank you." Jon took the bowl of stew with his left and the scraps with the right. "She is," he affirmed and received a nod from both men before they turned away to go back to their own food.

Setting the bowl in front of the dragon he watched as she barely waited for it to touch the dirt before digging into the meal. He knew she had caught a bird or two, small song birds, during her flight today, but she was growing so fast.

Ghost watched her with mild jealousy. He had already had his own meal and half a bowl of stew as well now, so Jon didn't feel any sympathy for the wolf.

"Jon."

He glanced up at his uncle's voice and grinned, eyes watching as the man strode up to settle beside him.

"Uncle Benjen," Jon acknowledged his presence with a nod.

"Winter seems bigger than when I last saw her," Benjen mused, eying the dragon as he adjusted his body into a comfortable position.

Jon nodded, glancing down at her. "She has grown . . . the daily flights have been good for her, I think." She slit her eyes towards them as she gulped down another slice of meat. "She's a long way from full grown though."

"I should hope." Benjen held a hand out for Ghost to inspect as the direwolf sought attention. "He's grown as well."

"Smaller still than Grey Wind," Jon said. He glanced about, peering into the darkness. "Where is Midnight?"

"Hunting, I believe," Benjen said and then waived off the offer of a bowl of stew from one of the men. "Where's your father?"

"Resting." Jon glanced towards the tent he was to share with his father. "Or planning. I could tell he wanted some time to himself." He paused to take a bite of stew. "Storm is with him."

Benjen glanced towards the tent. "Since Midnight found me on that ranging he hasn't left my side for more than a night or two." He ran his hand over Ghost's head, scratching gently behind his ears. "His presence fills a hole I never knew I had. I had no idea I had been missing something so. . ." he paused searching for words, ". . . so integral to my being."

Jon watched as ghost's eyes slid shut, enjoying the attention. He looked down at Winter, understanding exactly what his uncle was saying. "Neither did I."

* * *

The morning sun came too quickly; Jon was barely able to get a couple solid hours of sleep before his father gently shook his shoulder and called his name. The tent had multiple lanterns already lit, hanging at the four corners. It wasn't a large tent, but they could stand within it and it took a half dozen long strides to cross.

Jon forced himself out of the pile of furs, allowing Ghost and Winter to adjust, curling up together in the warm spot he'd left. There was a bowl of cool water and another of snow set near the entrance to the tent. He used a rag to do a basic cleansing of his body and a handful of snow pressed against his eyes to wake himself.

"You have to come along, you know," he muttered to the pair laying across his abandoned bed as he dressed, lacing his tunic slowly. "At the very least you do, Winter." She didn't even slit open an eye.

Ghost ignored him as well and he sighed before stepping over Storm's tail to retrieve his boots and exit the tent. The mother wolf was inured to the presence of people for the most part, although outside of the Stark family she could often be found growling softly when forced to interact with humans. He slipped his feet into the boots before exiting, intending to lace them tight once he was seated outside.

The sky was more blue than grey when he settled down near the fire, pulling his cloak around his shoulders and hunkering his chin into the fur. The camp was awakening, the night shift of Stark guards heading to bed while the morning shift ate and readied themselves for the day.

As he secured the furs at his front with a simple clasp he glanced up at the panorama, the Free Folk wandering along the edge of the Stark portion of the camp, the light smattering of fog towards the hills. Above them the sky was clear but for a few wisps of puffy white clouds. The sun was peeking over the edge of the nearby hills warming the crisp air slowly.

Once he had finished tying his cloak he stood and crossed to where one of the men was serving a light breakfast of rye bread, a bit dry and stale but lacking mold, and a greasy, gamey slice of meat from some sort of bird. He ate quickly, ignoring the queasy feeling churning at the bottom of his stomach.

When he returned to the tent a short while later, his father was reviewing official documents and pages of notes; some of which held Jon's own penmanship—notes from their discussions of his past lives.

"Are you ready?" Ned asked, looking up from the papers.

"As well as I can be." Jon ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back from his face, tangling fingers in the curls. Gloves. He needed gloves. He cast his eyes towards his portion of the tent, spotting them.

As he retrieved them he eyed the dragon who was watching him lazily, head nestled on Ghost's tail.

"Winter," he called causing her to lift her head up. "C'mon."

She huffed out a hiss and crawled over Ghost's prone body—he twitched an ear but otherwise didn't move—and slowly extricated herself from the bed. It didn't take long for her to reach his side. She cocked her head to the side and looked at him expectantly.

"When are we to meet with Mance Rayder?" Jon asked, glancing over at his father.

"Soon," Ned said, setting the papers down upon his own bed. "Mance should be sending men to retrieve us when they are ready."

* * *

A half hour later a tall, dark haired man with scars crisscrossing half his face and a young fair haired spearwife came for them. The woman's muddy brown eyes widened when she saw Winter, watching every movement the small dragon made with awe, mouth muttering what Jon thought might be a prayer in a dialect he didn't know. Her companion, on the other hand, just scowled, cool blue eyes narrowed into slits.

Winter, with a mental nudge from Jon, just ignored them. She took to the sky, becoming a dot against pale blue in the distance.

Instead of being led to Mance's tent where Ned had treated with the King-Beyond-the-Wall and few clan representatives the evening before, they were led to the other side of camp and marched for a good ten minutes before arriving before the makings of a pyre. Sitting nearby was the large form of a giant, not one that he recognized but he had a familiar look about him, Jon thought he was perhaps related to Mag the Mighty.

As Jon took in the area, the small crowd of clan representatives and Mance himself, he realized his thoughts were correct. They were expecting a show, proof that the dragon was real and would one day be up to the task of destroying wights and protecting the future of their children—and themselves. Blinking in surprise, he recognized one of them. Val was standing off to the side, her blonde hair in its usual braid but dressed in dark furs unlike the bleached white ones he last saw her in several lives ago.

He took a shaky breath and as turned his attention to back the man standing immediately before them as they came to a stop.

Mance was waiting, standing between them and the pyre, his brown hair falling thick around his features with less grey streaking through it then Jon could remember. His brown eyes were looking Jon over, taking stock of the _bastard son of Lord Eddard Stark_. His clothes were a bit less worn as well, his black cloak darker and the red parts even deeper crimson, almost the color of the rubies the red priestesses coveted.

Lacking the patience for niceties—much of which had already been exchanged last night to some extent—perhaps due to his years with the gruff, plain spoken Free Folk, Mance spoke up as soon as they stopped before him. "This is the boy who has a dragon then."

"This is my son," Ned confirmed, "Jon Snow."

Jon stepped forward, back straight and chin lifted as he met Mance's eyes. "Aye, I'm the _boy_ who hatched a dragon," he said.

Mance stared at him for a long moment and then quirked a grin. "No 'your grace' or 'milord'?"

"I heard the Free Folk don't pay service to southron niceties. But if you insist," Jon inclined his head, " _your grace_."

Mance laughed then, grin widening. "You're not what I expected, boy."

"And what did you expect?" Jon asked.

"Perhaps someone more akin to Maester Aemon in looks," Mance admitted, squaring his shoulders and then narrowed his brown eyes. "I saw you once as a boy, but the looks of a boy can change much as they grow. Your eyes match your . . . uncle's. They don't dye your hair, do they?"

"I'm a Stark," Jon said quickly, a harsh bite to the edges of his words, "by blood. No one dyes my hair."

"Aye," Mance trailed his eyes over him again. "Anyone with eyes could see the Stark in you plain as day. The dragon blood is well hidden . . . Not to mention that direwolf you have. Same the rest of the Starks, I hear."

Jon nodded, wishing for a moment Ghost had come with him. The direwolves had all stayed back at camp with Uncle Benjen though.

"But the Stark part of you isn't what I'm interested in," Mance stepped aside, swinging his arm to motion to the pyre. "You've a dragon I've been told and there's only one bloodline still alive that I've heard of that can control them. I may not be as learned as some, but I know my history. I sat through lectures by Maester Aemon when I was growing up at the Wall." He met Jon's eyes again. "So, Jon _Targaryen_ , I'd like to see your dragon."

He set his jaw straight, forcing it to remain relaxed. "She can't win a war by herself."

"This isn't about winning the war," Mance admitted, lowering his voice to a low hiss that only Jon and Ned could hear. "It's about providing hope and something to rally behind. One dragon may not be the weapon that wins it—If we even can—but it'll give people hope. It may make the clans see the advantage of taking Lord Stark's offer and traveling peaceably south. Convince me that hope exists." He glanced towards the other Free Folk, shifting and muttering in the snow. "Convince _them_."

There was silence for a long moment as Jon stared at Mance. Mance stared back, not saying a word.

After a long moment, he nodded and looked towards the pyre. The pile of wood seemed to taunt him, the demand being made of him and Winter suddenly seeming quite daunting.

Jon felt a chill run down his spine and glanced up at the sky, eyes searching before he slid them shut, reaching out mentally. Winter may be small, young—just as he was physically—and her breath not nearly as intense as it would one day be, but that didn't mean they couldn't put on a show.

He opened his eyes, glancing at each of the clan representatives before speaking. "I ask," Jon called out, forcing the tone he'd used as Lord Commander and King of the North in previous lives into his words, "one thing. That you remember she is but a babe, just passed seven moons from hatching." He knelt then, knees settling into the snow.

And then his world shifted.

* * *

 _ **The cool wind slid over his body and allowed him to drift higher; the freezing temperatures bothered him surprisingly little, his inner warmth keeping all but the outermost layer of scales warm. Banking to the right, he shifted his gaze as he sought and found, with his companion's assistance, the gathering below.**_

 _ **They were intertwined, blended,**_ **human** _ **dragon bound together and making choices as one. Sometimes pushing each other towards better choices, filling in gaps of knowledge and understanding. A third set of eyes watched from the back of their mind, content to be left out of this**_ **flying** _ **business.**_

 _ **They swooped in close, flapping their wings as necessary to break the course set upon them by the thermals they'd been chasing previously. As they grew closer to the humans below, he could spot more details. It was mere moments before their—his—human body came into view. His head was tilted back, eyes completely white, rolled back into his head. His father was helping his body balance, a hand settled gently between his shoulder—a phantom sensation that he tried to ignore.**_

 _ **Winter let out a screech as they careened around the group, gliding before the Free Folk, circling twice before coming to a stop above his father's shoulder. Their wings flapped quickly, keeping them hovering in place.**_

 _ **They let the eyes of the Free Folk drink their full as they stared in turn at Mance Rayder through the distorted vision of the dragon's eyes. Below the normal human-esque vision and color field he could**_ **see** _ **the heat rising from the man's skin and cool air swirling around him, the chill of the snow on the ground and the slightly warmer patches of ground peeking through.**_

 _ **After a good moment, he adjusted his wings again and dove in a low swoop, circling the pyre once, twice, three times before pulling up in just the right spot and summoning as much strength as he could before breathing out, spitting flames upon the pile of wood.**_

* * *

Jon took a deep breath, almost gasping as he came back to himself, blinking away the dryness in his eyes. He stared at the sky for a moment as he gathered himself.

Winter was at his side, suitably proud of herself as she watched the blaze.

The Free Folk were talking amongst themselves, pointing and gesturing though he couldn't parse any individual words. His mind was still a bit muddled, Jon hadn't warged often with Winter and a dragon was quite a bit different than a direwolf, no matter how similar the warging process itself was. He blinked over his shoulder as his father squeezed his shoulder gently before holding his hand out to help Jon up.

The giant that had been sitting nearby was now much closer, standing and staring at Jon and Winter, he realized a few minutes later; unable to keep from looking up and meeting his eyes. The giant stared at them for a few more moments before speaking in the old tongue. Though he'd known the language in prior lives his mind wasn't making sense of it at the moment.

"He wants to know how big the dragon'll get," the spearwife that had accompanied them said.

"Hard to say," Jon said, mind cobbling together an answer, "but I've heard they used to grow as big as a mammoth. Bigger. Twice or more the size." He glanced up at the giant, not averting his eyes and watched the emotions shift across his face.

The giant smiled, wide and full of teeth.

Jon smiled back. Hope _was_ powerful—even just a smidgeon of it could change the world. Hopefully it would change this one for the better.

* * *

Note: Thank you for reading! I'm not a fan of the formatting for scene breaks on this site, so I do apologize that it is kind of funky. If it annoys you like it does me, you can find this story in its most up to date form on AO3 under my pseud 'Sanva'.


	4. Interlude: Ned II

The trip to Last Hearth from East Watch was relatively pleasant; the weather held the entire way there, but for a few cloud bursts that did little more than drizzle on them in the early mornings. Ned was pleased with the way his men treated their new traveling companions. A group of ten Free Folk had joined their party of thirty men. There were six men and four women, the women being rough spoken, hard edged spearwives that were as far from the image of a southern lady as Ned thought they could get. He thought it was most likely a conscious decision on Mance's part to prove a point and to start their tentative alliance off with as much blunt honesty as possible.

The Free Folk weren't known for their diplomacy, but the men and women that traveled with them were the closest people to diplomats Mance Rayder could send with them at the time. They were to travel south to Winterfell with them and, once there, begin a scouting of the lands Ned was offering to them. Most of the lands he'd provided as suggestions were in the Gift and New Gift, but there were also sections of land along the western coast of the North that Ned thought would make good farm land and with a new port being constructed in a bay midway between Sea Dragon Point and the Stony Shore it would also give them access to market and the ability to fish offshore should they choose.

The men and women were all representatives of different clans, and not all of them got along, which made for some interesting arguments across the fire and during the long ride. Ned had tried his best, as had the man Mance had put in charge—a grizzled middle aged man name Othur, whose hair was more salt and pepper than inky black and whose mud brown eyes were slanted into a glare more oft than not—but he had his own difficulties calming any disagreements that cropped up.

It was Jon who could settle most the disagreements with something akin to ease. Not just between the Stark men and the wildlings, but also amongst the wildlings themselves. He spent time with them, talking and even hunting with them on a few occasions. Ned watched and listened, surprised at how easily the cadence of Jon's voice slipped into the various wildling dialects, and adopted the common vocabulary used among the Free Folk, although he shouldn't have been.

Often, he found himself wavering between proud and sad that his son was able to interact with them and dissolve their disputes so easily. Jon clearly understood them, their way of life, and how difficult transitioning into the rules of the North—even if they were to be exempt from many of them—would be.

Robb didn't have the experience and was unable to mimic his brother's ease, but he tried. For once it was Robb following Jon as he spoke and turned acquaintances into friends, copying Jon's manner and emulating how he spoke with them to the best of his ability. By the third day on the road he'd managed to strike up something akin to a friendship with one of the younger men, a warg named Breck who was dark haired and covered in freckles. Breck was companions with a large frost eagle who whirled overhead and screeched whenever Winter drew near. From what Ned could tell they spent much of their time discussing how Robb could better train his warging abilities.

"How much farther to this castle we're to stop at?" Othur asked, voice rough, and if Ned hadn't spent nearly the entire last moon with the man he'd have thought Othur was annoyed. And he may have been, but the tone was his default setting.

"An hour or thereabouts," Ned answered, glancing over at him.

Othur was decent at riding, but it had been obvious from the start that he hadn't much experience on a horse. They'd done some trading at East Watch to get enough horses to supply their entire party in addition to the wagon they brought. Pyke had been far from ecstatic when he realized who would be making use of their steads, but had provided them nonetheless. Ned had already sent a letter off to request replacements be sent North by one of the breeders he employed as Lord of Winterfell. They would even be better trained than those they'd taken—ten steads originally broken in and trained with the intention of supplying Winterfell's guard and cavalry.

Othur stared up at the sky and scowled. "These Umbers that hold the castle we're headed to. I've heard of them. They have no love for the Free Folk."

"And the Free Folk have held no love for them, or for the rest of us, for thousands of years as well," Ned pointed out. "We've considered each other enemies for a thousand years and that will not go away overnight, but needs must. We will need each other to get through the long night and defeat the Others. Of that I have no doubt," Othur dropped his eyes to meet Ned's gaze, "do you?"

"No," Othur snorted. "I lost a daughter and two grandchildren to wights eight moons back. They were torn apart afore my eyes by blue eyed, half rotted corpses. One of 'em didn't have but a strip of meat on its legs, but it walked. We keep torches burning now, day and night. Fire's the only thing that truly kills 'em."

"I hope that we are able to prevent the same from happening to others," Ned said, lips pressed tightly together.

"That's why I agreed with Mance to treat with you. As did the other clans. That's why I sent word for _my_ clan to head south to the wall the day you rode into camp," Othur turned his gaze forward. "Figured if things fell apart with the whole of Mance's group, I might yet be able to strike a bargain to save my remaining kin and pass the Wall. Either way, death at the hands of southroner soldiers would be more merciful then that of a wight."

"I will not allow my bannermen to attack any Free Folk settled in the North who follow the agreement that was made."

"Allow doesn't mean you'll be able to stop 'em from striking against us should they truly wish to," Othur said and the point struck true. It was something Ned was worried about. The North was large and if a few well-armed men, either under orders or on their own prerogative, decided to strike against the Free Folk a war could be easily started long before his words could sway the tide toward peace.

But any agreements made he would keep. He, his sons, and his men would all seek justice should anything go awry.

"If they do not follow my commands they will be dealt with," he said stiffly, a muscle jumping along his jaw. "I will not allow murders to roam free."

"Our way is the old way."

Ned glanced aside to find Robb watching them, his son having been following their conversation. He smiled slightly at his son and nodded. "Our way is the old way." Glancing back at Othur, he continued, "Should a man—or woman—decide to take action against the Free Folk, without provocation, House Stark will provide justice. I promise you that."

* * *

 _The Free Folk, men and women, paused their activities to watch as Ned, Benjen, and Ser Jory followed their guides through the camp. Their faces were worn, lines etched into many of them—scars and wrinkles—long before they would people of similar ages below the Wall. Life in the far north was more difficult, food harder to come by at times, with no maesters, and few healers with the knowledge to save lives should accidents occur and infection set in._

 _The cold was biting and, for all he was used to the cold having lived most of his life in Winterfell and the North, there was an edge to it that was different. More dangerous. These people were survivors who lived directly off the land. There were few keeps north of the Wall and few permanent settlements as most people lived in small bands, clans, that roamed the frozen land. This habit would likely be one of the most difficult to break, for they'd been living in this manner for thousands of years._

 _If they were to come south of the Wall, however, they would have to make concessions to their current way of life. People, even small folk, held their own land and would not think kindly if a band of wildlings suddenly decided to make camp in their fields and reap their crops for their own benefit. Their way of life was why wilding raiders were so hated in many of the holds closer to the wall. It made it difficult for the few wilding men and women who had wanted to adapt to find someone willing to give them a chance._

 _They were led to a large tent near the center of camp, big enough for at least a dozen individuals to sit comfortably around a fire at the center, but obviously lived in. A couple of wildlings stood outside. To the right a young woman with a spear stood, her honey blonde hair in a braid over her shoulder and her grey eyes narrowed as she watched them approach. To the left stood a man, a bit older with dark hair edged with grey. He too was armed, a spear in his grip and what looked to be a short sword belted across the leathers at his middle._

 _One of their guards, a man named Feryn, strode forward and spoke softly to the woman who nodded and slid through the opening. A moment later she opened the tent door fully and Feryn entered without looking back at them._

 _Without hesitation Ned followed him in. The tent was much warmer inside, warmed by a roaring fire at the center. It was mostly empty; a few men sat near the fire and another stood across the fire from the entry._

"Lord _Eddard Stark," the man said not moving from where he was standing, hands in front of him, hovering over the fire as if he was warming them. "It's been some time since I last saw you."_

 _Ned frowned mentally, searching his mind for a moment, before remembering where he'd last seen him. Jon had warned him of this and he felt shame that he'd forgotten. "Mance Rayder. It has been some time. You traveled with the late Lord Commander Qorgyle to Winterfell once, if my memory serves."_

" _I did," Mance acknowledged, dropping his hands and moving around the fire. The smoke from the fire, drifting upwards towards an opening in the tent, had distorted his features. He was older now, nearly more grey than brown in his hair. He was wearing leathers, a tunic so dark brown it was almost back, and the thick wool cloak dyed black with bright crimson patches that Jon had described to him was draped over his shoulders._

" _You have done quite well for yourself," Ned said after a moment of silence, "since leaving the watch."_

 _Mance Rayder raised an eyebrow. "Are you going to try and take my head as a deserter?"_

 _The other men at the fire shifted a bit at that and Ser Jory tensed at Ned's shoulder._

 _Ned chose his next words carefully. Yes, Mance had abandoned the watch, but the reason he had done so—at least the reason he clung to—still held with some of the oaths the Watch made. Perhaps the original oath, for with what Jon had told him of the lost history he had gleaned over dozen's of lives, the original oath hadn't been quite as long as the current. Many things had changed as the Watch changed over time, becoming more a penal colony than a true Order. It was unsurprising that the oath the brotherhood swore may have been modified as well._

" _You swore to be the shield that guards the realms of men," Ned said, keeping his eyes locked with Mance's. "Is that not what you are doing? Protecting men?"_

" _The crows see the wildlings as the enemy that they protect the_ realm _from."_

" _The Night's Watch have not faced the true enemy in thousands of years, have they?" Ned asked. "But the Free Folk have. You have seen them. Else you would not be organizing the clans to fight their way past the Wall."_

" _The true enemy," Mance murmured. "What do you know?"_

" _I know the rumors. I know that that the Watch has been trying to bury its head in the snow, to hide from the truth of things," Ned paused for a moment, watching Mance's features in the dim light. "I know a man named Crastor sacrifices his sons to monsters that walk like men, but are not men. Lord Commander Mormont told me himself." Though Jon told him first._

" _The Lord Commander knows and yet does nothing."_

" _You were a member of the Watch," Ned pointed out, ignoring his brother shifting behind him at the disparaging comments to his Order. "Do you think the Watch has gotten better or worse in the years since you left the Wall?"_

" _If you're trying to convince me to work with the Watch, to work with you," Mance started, lips pressing into a line between words, "you're going about it the wrong way."_

" _The Watch is not what it once was, but if you try and force your way through you won't just be facing the men of the Night's Watch. You'll be facing the men of the North. Armies trained to fight where the worse trained man is better equipped than your best," he said and took a step forward. "I do not want to fight you and your people, but if you force my hand there will be a slaughter."_

 _Unmoving, Mance eyed him, his brown eyes calculating._

 _Ned truly didn't want to have to fight the Free Folk. Not only would it weaken the North, but more death would mean a greater army and an opportune time for the White Walkers to attack. He wanted to get as many people south as possible. The North, and the Watch, could use the assistance to both man the wall and man the_ land _. Already Ned had set Stark men, as well as his bannermen's, to assisting with construction and farming operations throughout the North, but they were also provided with organized arms training as well. Protecting the people was just as important as feeding them. If the White Walkers—or wars started in the South—threatened them all the food in the world would mean nothing if the people were dead._

" _You threatenin' us?" One of the men around the fire stood, unable to keep his mouth shut._

 _Mance glanced over at him, but said nothing._

" _No," Ned stated simply, meeting the man's heated gaze. "I am merely stating the truth."_

" _Aye," Mance agreed, nodding to the man and holding up a hand. "You have not seen the Stark men or the other armies of the North before, Braig. I rode to Winterfell once and have seen other holds as well. I was there during peace time and yet they kept a standing guard that trained daily. His men are well trained and if he so ordered they'd mow down most of the camp before we took them out. A few dozen men would have better arms and armor than a one in a thousand of us. They fight wars with thousands of men in such gear. They have stockpiles of it."_

 _The man frowned and glared at Ned, blue eyes pinching in a freckled face._

" _I came to negotiate, not threaten."_

" _Negotiate." Mance lip quirked in a half smile. "What reason would you have to allow wildlings past the wall and into your_ kingdom _?"_

" _Plenty," Ned answered, turning back to Mance. "I would tell you of them if you are willing to listen."_

" _We won't kneel," the red-haired man spit out._

" _And I will not ask you to."_

 _That got a reaction from every man in the room. The red-haired man snorted and scowled in disbelief. The other men glanced his way for the first time._

 _Mance raised an eyebrow and then nodded. "I'll hear your reasons and your terms," he said finally. "If you mean to use us for fodder in your wars, though, we'll not have it."_

" _The White Walkers are the ones that want to use the_ Free Folk _as fodder. I want the Free Folk and the North to survive," he set his face in a grim mask. "I wish to fight for the living, all the living. Do you and yours?"_

* * *

Storm huffed nearby a short time later, bringing Ned out of the spiral of thoughts rushing through his mind. Plan upon plan, contingency upon contingency. As a boy he'd never thought that this would be his duty. As a second son he'd thought, especially upon fostering in the Vale with Jon Arryn, that he might become a knight and later perhaps a Master of Arms in either his elder brother's hold or at Storm's End when Robert became Lord. Or a half dozen other options he'd been afforded. He hadn't been taught to be Warden of the North, Lord of Winterfell. Those titles had always been destined for Brandon. Lord Rickard hadn't thought to spend much time working with Ned—or Benjen—to prepare him for the worst should it happen.

That was why he had decided upon hearing of Robb's birth that while he may be the heir all his male children would receive much the same teachings. Each would receive at least basic instruction in becoming Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North and what it entailed. Even Jon, his supposed bastard. Catelyn had not been happy, but his desperate, harsh words had swayed her to do nothing more than frown as Jon followed at Robb's heals to learn at his side for years. Her frowns had turned to words once Bran had been born and eventually Jon had been left out of certain lessons.

Hearing what became of his nephew in most lives, how unprepared he was in the first few for being Lord Commander and later King, Ned wished desperately that he would have set his foot down harder. Or that he would have told Catelyn the truth sooner.

He glanced at Storm, who looked back at him as she trotted alongside his horse. The trees were getting a bit sparser now and ahead they could see where the tree line ended. A few minutes later they exited the forest and caught site of Last Hearth in the distance. The land around them was freshly cleared, stumps still scattered about the fields nearby. Several teams of men and horses were working to get rid of them and other obstructions.

Ahead Ned could see the foundation being laid for the wall he'd discussed with Lord Umber—and similar projects with a dozen other Lords— when the man had come to visit not long after Lord Manderly had departed Winterfell to survey sites they had chosen on the western coast.

While it wouldn't be much of a deterrent against the armies of men, the thick stone wall, with watch towers and a few gates spaced at major thoroughfares for the small folk, would add an extra line of defense around Last hearth, some of its fields, and the village outside the castle walls. The trench that would be set before it was of Jon's designing, something they'd used it previous lives. It would be worthless without Alchemists, of course, but they would sort that end out if the need arose.

Lord Umber had grumbled about the project and the expense, but hadn't questioned the reasoning behind it. Ned had promised to tell him and the other lords of it with time, reminding them of their oath to House Stark and volunteering assistance with the construction. Money had been less an issue then he'd expected for many as Northern houses tended to be more frugal with their funds. Winters were harsher in the North and full coffers could allow the purchase of much needed supplies when winters lasted longer than expected.

As they passed the workers, men stopped to stare at them and wave in greeting at the sight of the Stark banners cutting through the air. He'd ordered them to be visible since leaving the Wall, not wanting the sight of free folk traveling with them to cause scouts and small folk to run off and rally men for an assault. It was unlikely that they would have been mistaken for wilding raiders, but Ned wasn't willing to risk anything. If he could avoid any amount of trouble he would.

But there were some things that he had to deal with. The deep dislike for wildlings fostered by thousands of years of raids was something that he couldn't avoid. Better to meet it head on. If he could get the major lords to bend on this issue then others would follow, grumbling all the way but they would follow.

Like Winterfell, Last Hearth had been built with keeping the Long Night at bay in mind. It was thousands of years old and had gone through multiple rebuilds after being damaged and partly destroyed over the years. It was designed to last against a long siege, but it had been a long time since such a thing was necessary.

"Othor," Ned said as they grew closer to the castle, "while not something I wish to ask of you, I find I must request that you join the other free folk while I and my sons meet first with Lord Umber."

Othor snorted and glanced his way, hands gripping his reins tighter. "Stark, I have no wish to attempt to blunder my way through your _southern niceties_. I'm not here for that shit. I'll join the others in the back gladly and let you deal with the Umber men." He grinned wickedly. "I do plan on being close enough to see his face when you tell him to invite us in, though."

"Thank you, Othor," Ned said and sighed after the man turned his horse back. A moment later Jon's horse drew up in his place. He hadn't seen the teenager since breakfast that morning. "Jon," he nodded in greeting. "Where's Winter?"

"She caught a hare a bit before we left the forest and went to find somewhere to enjoy it," Jon said with a shrug. "Ghost and Grey Wind were acting like they wanted her to share."

Said direwolves had found their way to the front of the group, loping side by side a few yards ahead of their mother. Ned watched as they nipped playfully at each other as they ran for a moment.

"Do you want me to stay back with the men?" Jon asked hesitantly.

"Jon shouldn't have to do that, Father," Robb spoke up from his other side, a frown on his face. The last time he'd taken both boys to meet with a bannerman—to Castle Cerwyn—Jon had stood beside Ser Jory and some of the other men and hadn't even been introduced as Ned's son until much later. His lady wife had been with them on that trip along with Sansa.

"No," he said, not even looking towards his heir. "You will ride in with Robb and me. If there are any objections or perceived slights to be had I will deal with them. Keep Ghost and Grey Wind back, at your sides at the very least, when we reach the gates. I don't wish there to be any trouble over their presence," he looked down at the wolf at his side, "or Storm's. But Lord Umber and his men will not be accustomed to their presence."

He glanced at Robb, watching as the young man nodded and sat up straighter in his saddle. After several long moments of his son wearing an intense look of concentration, Grey Wind broke from his brother's side and dropped back to match Robb's horse in pace. A moment later Ghost followed suit, moving to Jon's side.

With the exception of two children, a boy and a girl, that Greatjon had fostered to other houses his entire family was present when Ned's horse entered the gates, Robb and Jon behind him. The man had four sons and three daughters so far, his wife was about Catelyn's age, so there was no ruling out the possibility of more children in the future—especially considering how fruitful their marriage had been so far.

Greatjon Umber smiled in welcome as Ned's arrival was officially announced. "Lord Eddard Stark," he said, bowing, "I welcome you to Last Hearth."

"Lord Umber, I thank you for your hospitality," Ned smiled in return. "My eldest son and heir, Robb, has joined us. As has my son Jon Snow."

The Greatjon's eyes flickered to Ned's right, gaze finding each of the boys. It seemed to linger on Jon and, with the minute emotions shifting the man's features, he wondered what rumors the man had heard.

"House Stark is always welcome here," Greatjon said finally.

"I am glad to hear it," Ned said as he dismounted. Striding forward he gripped Greatjon's arm in greeting, smiling at the tight grip of the man before him.

Lord Umber was a large man, towering over Ned, and having seen him in battle Ned had no inclination to pick a fight with the man. The sword Greatjon wielded and it made Ice look like naught but a bastard sword.

"I trust you heard that I rode north to survey the Wall?"

"Aye," Lord Umber nodded brusquely, "I heard." The skin around his eyes and mouth tightened. "There are a lot of rumors floating around, my Lord. Rumors that range from believable to downright mad."

"I have come to clear such rumors up for you, Lord Umber. And to answer any questions you still have following our last talk," Ned said honestly, glancing back towards where his men and the free folk were trailing through the gates. "I find, my friend, that while I trust you and yours with my life and that of my sons I must ask for guest rights. I had other reasons then just the Nights Watch to go north and I plan to share them with you, but I must ensure the safety of my traveling companions within these walls."

Greatjon glanced over the men, his eyes quickly finding the wildlings. "You brought wildings into my lands?" he asked, voice taught.

"Remember what we spoke of previously, Lord Umber," Ned said, face falling into a blank mask. "I advised you that with the coming winter there would be dangers one dare not imagine and you said you trusted that I spoke the truth of it. Do you trust me now?"

A low growl reminded both Ned and the Greatjon of Storm's presence at Ned's elbow.

Greatjon glanced at the direwolf, his scowl lessening in intensity. "Aye. I'll allow them bread and salt, but if they turn on my people I will have their heads, my _lord_. And you'll not stand in my way."

* * *

"Queenscrown, you'll give the wildlings _Queenscrown_?!" Greatjon slammed his hand down on the table between them, eyes dark.

They were speaking privately in what amounted to Greatjon's solar. A meal was set between them, cracked bread and a stew of carrots, potatoes, and mutton. After arranging quarters Ned had joined Lord Umber for a private lunch. Later today there would be a feast in Last Hearth's great hall, Ned was sure, but first he had to settle his bannerman's hot head.

"No, I will give Queenscrown to one of my sons or a loyal lord who will keep the _peace_ between the wildlings, the nearby lords and ladies, and the small folk," Ned answered calmly, staring straight into the blustering man's eyes. "Winter is coming, Jon, and I'm not just referring to my House's words or to the season."

Greatjon's eyes narrowed and he grit his teeth, fingers flexing on the table but he didn't move or speak.

"Things are stirring in the far north and I am not speaking of the wildlings, although they too are on the move. They, like we must, are reacting to much darker forces," Ned leaned forward slightly. "They are scared and see getting past the wall as their only chance to survive."

"You can't run from snow and ice," Greatjon said, but there was an edge to his voice that made Ned think perhaps he was understanding what Ned was getting at.

"No, you cannot and why would they?" he asked breaking a piece of bread off and dipping it into the stew. As he let the juices soak into the crust he continued, not allowing the other man to answer, "They've lived beyond the wall for thousands of years and weather higher snows and colder temperatures than the North has ever seen. Yet they are desperate. Dozens of clans are banding together behind a man that once swore an oath to the Night's Watch. They see him and forcing their way south as their only option for survival. What do you think would have all of them running scared. _All of them_."

The man before him said nothing, settling back into his chair. "How many men will we be facing?"

"It won't be a fight of men, Jon," Ned said, grey eyes so dark they were almost black. His voice was devoid of emotion. "As to numbers, that depends on how many we can get south of the wall. You told me that you trusted my word last time we spoke and, while I did not outright state it, I had assumed you'd come to the correct conclusion."

"Aye, I trust you, my Lord, but still it is difficult to believe. You speak of legends, monsters old women tell stories of to scare babes into behaving as if they're real and don't bat an eye. I can scares believe that such horse shit is true. I don't want it to be true."

"Aye," he said, nodding. "And by the Gods I wish I did not believe it myself. But the wildlings have seen it and some among the watch have seen it. Winter is coming, Jon, and we must be prepared. Either we all work together or we will die all together. I would rather live to see another summer, wouldn't you?"

"And if you're wrong?"

He took a moment to savor the soaked piece of bread before speaking again. "The agreement I made will last through the coming winter. If the clans wish to renegotiate to stay in the North then," Ned said and picked up his glass, glancing at the contents, "then we will. Most have expressed their wish to go back north of the Wall once the danger abates. I doubt many will change their minds and stay. They aren't fond of us _kneelers_ and our ways."

"I don't like this," Greatjon said after a few moments, "letting the wildlings onto our lands, and I won't duck my head and pretend to either."

"I won't ask you to," Ned promised. "All I ask is that your men not attack the Free Folk without just cause. Treat them as you would any other small folk." He sighed and set the glass of ale on the table. "Documentation of the treaty signed with Mance Rayder will be provided to all lords, ladies, and maesters in the North. They agreed to follow the basic rules of our land, with some exceptions to our traditions."

"You've heard of their practice of steal—"

"Aye, I've heard of it and they've agreed to make it clear no citizens of the North will be forced to join in that tradition. Just like House Umber agreed not to practice the _lord's right_."

Greatjon's face reddened. "We don't practice that anymore."

Ned just smiled tiredly. "They agreed that it would be practiced only amongst their own, but it is a core tradition that they would not give up. Their version of marriage. But, if one of them steal a northerner in such a manner, _without prior permission_ , the major clan heads have agreed to allow northern justice—our justice—to be had."

"Empty promises."

"I will be the first to raise my men to battle should they break the treaty," Ned said, eyes narrowing. "And if one of my bannermen goes against my word I will have justice just as my House always has. Do not test me too much, Lord Umber, or you will learn the bite of my direwolf's fangs first hand."

Eyeing him Lord Umber sat back, hand reaching out to grab his ale glass. "They called you the quiet wolf once," he said before taking a long drink. "And it's always fit, I thought. But now you're making all sorts of noise, my Lord. Perhaps we'll have to think of something else to call you." He grinned a bit, narrowing his eyes. "My House swore its fealty to yours. I swore loyalty to you and yours. I'll uphold both oaths, that I can promise you."

He stared at Ned then, gaze serious. "But I want the information you promised me. I've heard the rumors, Lord Stark, and a couple of my scouts swore to me that they saw another creature with your party, an impossible one. I could dismiss the rumors, but I trust my men."

Staring at the lord, Ned pressed his lips together in thought, considering his options. Weighing his words carefully he leaned forward in his seat. "If I told you that Winterfell and the North had the loyalty of a dragon, what would you do?" he asked.

"I'd ask how the bloody hell you managed it!" Greatjon waved his glass, ale sloshing a bit over the rim of the recently filled cup.

Ned grinned and chuckled softly. "After that. What would you _do_?"

"I wouldn't tell the bloody Crown if that's what you're thinking," Greatjon narrowed his eyes. "A dragon would make the southerners think twice about insulting or demanding anything of us. They wouldn't dare raise a fuss with that power at our backs."

"A full grown dragon, perhaps," Ned said, watching him carefully, "but a young one?"

Greatjon pursed his lips. "Your—the boy. Jon _Snow_. He's the rider, isn't he?"

Ned inclined his head in a slight nod.

"You fucker," Greatjon laughed, and then coughed adding, "my lord. You . . . He's _hers_?"

Ned said nothing, just dipped another piece of bread into his stew as he watched his friend.

"By the Gods!" The man leaned back and laughed. "I don't know how you did it—the dragon bit not raising your nephew—but you've done it. The North will never be forced to bow again, will it?"

Ned had already decided to let Lord Umber think what he would of his motivations, of his plans for Jon and Winter. There was a spark of truth to be had, after all. It was better he, and the other lords, believe there had been a plan in place all along.

"No," he agreed softly, "we'll never be _forced_ to bow again. Not in our lifetimes anyway."

* * *

 _The feast was in full swing, near a dozen of his bannermen—minor and major Houses of the North—had arrived over the past few days with their taxes and tribute for the last year. Tonight, they were celebrating the end of the years major growing season and the planting of colder weather crops. Ned smiled as he watched his eldest daughter bite her lip and dip her head before politely accepting a dance with one of Lord Karstark's sons. At seven name days, she was still learning the steps, but the boy was not that much older than her so they would fumble through together he was sure._

 _Ned watched them dance for a few moments before turning his attention back to his lady wife who was smiling as she watched the children as well. Raising an eyebrow, he leaned toward her. "I do hope she does not fancy herself in love with one of the lads at the end of the night."_

 _"She may," Catelyn quirked a small grin back at him, leaning close, "but then her eye will wander within a fortnight to one of the dashing young guardsmen, to a visiting knight or nobleman, or to one of the prince's in the stories she reads and insists Old Nan or Septa Mordane tell her time and again."_

 _"As long as she doesn't try and convince me to betroth her at seven," Ned murmured back, "then all shall be fine."_

 _Already he was fielding betrothal requests for his eldest children, Robb and Sansa, from various lords and ladies. Most came from within the North itself, but a few polite notions had been sent from as far as the Reach. Ned had responded with polite refusals to all, unwilling to sign away their lives at such an early age. Besides, he would rather get a feel for the man or woman their intended would become before agreeing to anything._

 _The bard's song tailed off before twisting into another, slightly more upbeat tune. A few dancers continued to swirl about the floor while others switched partners or returned to their seats. His eye caught on Alys Karstark who had, apparently, managed to convince Jon to take part._

 _The boy's cheeks were obviously tinged pink, yet his expression was as sullen as it had been since Ned had returned nearly a fortnight ago from visiting Lord Ryswell, Lady Dustin, and several other Houses of the region at Barrow Hall in Barrowton. It had been a relatively quick visit, all things considered, but he'd still been gone over a moon. Normally Jon's attitude would perk up considerably within a sennight of his return, but this time something had stilled it._

 _His lady wife made a small noise in the back of her throat and he glanced her way. Catelyn was staring onto the dance floor, lips pursed and eyes narrowed. Ned didn't even have to follow her gaze to know who she was watching so intently._

 _Emotions warred within him, but he couldn't find it within himself to be truly mad at her. Annoyed and a tad upset, but not angry. It was his lies that colored her opinion of his son—nephew—and any anger directed at her would truly be directed at himself._

 _"It's just a dance," he said, the words leaving his throat before he could stop them. "Just like Sansa's dance, it means nothing. Lady Alys danced with Robb and a half dozen of the other lads already tonight." He repeated, "It's just a dance."_

 _Catelyn pursed her lips and redirected her gaze at him. He wished for a moment that he could tell her the truth, but the words stuck in his throat as they always did. Fear and self-loathing twisted in his stomach. He couldn't bear to bring her into this. There was some amount of safety for her and the children should his lies be found out._

 _Ned watched as she clenched her jaw and turned her head slightly away, eyes drifting about the crowd, likely searching for one of her other children. Most likely Robb. "You're right, of course, my Lord, it is just a dance."_

* * *

Last Hearth's great hall was brightly lit with lantern's, candle's, and a half dozen very large fireplaces set at even intervals around the halls perimeter. Ned and his sons had been afforded a place at the high table, alongside Lord Umber's family. Greatjon had been informed that they would be visiting on their way back from the Wall before they'd even left Winterfell, although the timing had not been secured until their party had departed Eastwatch. This had afforded plenty of time to prepare for their arrival.

The Umber clan was a bit wilder, their festivities busier and louder than most. Some comparisons, Jon had told him quietly one night on the road, could be made between them and the wildlings they so despised at times. The Greatjon's boisterous, often crass, speech certainly did hold some similarities to that of Othor's. One might even draw the conclusion that Othor was a tad politer than Ned's bannerman at times.

"I have half a mind to offer one of my daughters for marriage to the boy," the Greatjon said, leaning close to Ned's ear. The feast had been going on for over two hours now and most everyone either deep in their cups, on the dance floor, or both. "But, I have a feeling that's not something you're willing to consider yet." They were watching where Greatjon's second daughter, Loerna, was nearly leading Jon through the steps of the current dance. The boy looked just as awkward as at any other feast Ned had seen him at. Apparently it was one of the things that never changed, no matter how many lives he'd lived. "Not much of a dancer, though better than the last time I saw him, I think. Your sister wasn't much a fan of dancin' either, if I recall correctly."

"No," Ned agreed, "she wasn't."

Lyanna hadn't liked dancing, but she had been quite good at it. She had excelled at most everything she'd put her mind to from riding and swordsmanship to dancing and even embroidery. That didn't mean she'd liked dancing or embroidery, however, in fact she had loathed the latter. Much like Arya, she'd avoided it when she could—although Arya's skill with a needle left much to be desired.

He slid his gaze about the room, eyes finding the nearby table where the Free Folk sat to dine. A few of his men, including Ser Jory and the guardsman who he'd recently assigned to be Jon's personal guard, Luca, were sitting with them. Some of the Umber men would glance their way on occasion, eyes slanted into glares, frowns upon their faces. Guest rights had been given, however, and everyone on both sides seemed to be honoring them.

Still, it was the first night at Last Hearth with several nights to go before they would continue to Winterfell. Ned made a mental note to request access to a raven so he could send word to Catelyn that they would be would return in about a sennight or so.

"While you are correct that I don't plan on betrothing any of my children quite yet, I am a bit curious. Which of your daughters did you have in mind?" Ned asked, raising an eyebrow. He wasn't about to betroth Jon to anyone, but that didn't mean he couldn't feign at least a bit of curiosity.

"Urma is a bit too young for the boy," Greatjon said thoughtfully, eyes moving back to where Jon was attempting to surreptitiously avoid continuing on with the next dance as the bard's song ended. "Helda I think would run off if I tried to marry her off at this point. She's as wild as your sister was. Part of the reason I've fostered her off on my cousin. They might make a good pair, though," he grinned, "If he could tame her."

"Not Loerna?"

Lord Umber let out a boisterous laugh. "She'd break him I think. He looks like a Stark and he perhaps has the Stark height, somewhat, but the boy has his father's build, doesn't he? He looks near a midget next to her!" In truth, she was perhaps eight inches taller than Jon. It was doubtful he'd catch up to her height though in the few years of growing Jon had left to do.

"Aye. He is slighter of build than I or Robb," Ned said, voice dropping though no one was seated in their immediate vicinity and the noise around them made it impossible to hear what the people at the next table were saying clearly. "Much closer to his father's blood."

"No matter how adept he is," Greatjon started, pulling a pitcher of wine closer so he could refill his glass, "I doubt he'd be able to handle my eldest daughter. 'Sides she might stab me with my bloody great sword should I try to give her hand away without her permission. She's been yapping about her choice for betrothal since she was nine name days old. If it weren't for the boy she has her eye on being shit scared of her I'd have married her off the moment she flowered."

"Sounds as if she is quite the wild one," Ned said, watching as the girl dragged his son into another dance.

"Aye," Umber agreed. "Wild she is! Wild and fierce!" He set his glass down and poured ale into hit, the liquid sloshing over the rim. "Dare I say she'd be a better warrior than my sons if she had interest in it. She took the lessens given to all our women, but kept to the womanly arts gladly. Thank the Gods." He 'hmm'ed as they watched their children dance together. "They would make quite a striking pair if it weren't for the height difference. I expect I'll be fielding twitters from my wife for the next several moons on the subject."

"He doesn't bear the Stark name," Ned pointed out after a few moments.

"Bah," Greatjon grinned around his cup, "what does it matter if he bears a bastard name? With his blood any house with sense will be battering you with requests. Especially once the truth gets out along with word of that great beast of his . . . both of them."

Perhaps he shouldn't have been surprised at how accepting Lord Umber was of Jon and his true parentage, but he was. Ned was glad the man could see that Jon had no part in the choices his parents had made before his birth and that he had been raised as a Northerner, a Stark. Greatjon hadn't even mentioned Rhaegar or his House by name no matter how often he alluded to Jon's sire or his house. Instead, just as Ned had hoped his bannermen would, Greatjon had focused on the simple fact that Lyanna Stark was his mother.

* * *

 _"Are you sure this is wise, Father?" Robb asked quietly, watching as Jon opened the doors that kept the weather out of the Umber's largest guest room. It had a balcony which, although small, opened with double doors to a space several feet wide in all directions._

 _The room they were in was one that had originally been set aside for visiting royalty along with several rooms around it. It had been constructed in the time since House Stark united the North and hundreds of years prior to Torrhen Stark bending the knee to Aegon the conqueror._

 _"She cannot be kept secret forever," Ned answered as Winter landed upon the polished stone floor. "Already the smallfolk are talking of her and the rumors we've spread will only help masque the reality of her for so long. It is better that we gain as much support as possible from our most trusted bannermen and allies."_

 _"She still has much growing to do," Robb said, concern and nerves creasing his brow. "I worry what would happen if the wrong person found out about her. What if someone attempts to steal her?"_

 _"Would Grey Wind accept orders from another person?" he asked, eyes finding the wolves where they had piled upon the bed he would be sleeping upon late tonight._

 _"Jon or you, perhaps." Robb sighed. "I just worry about what will happen if another . . . Jon says his uncle is mad. If word reaches him I cannot help but worry what he may try to do."_

 _"At this point, the man you speak of has very little support from a few nobles in Essos who seek to use his name to their own gain, no funds to speak of, and only a younger sister who backs him due to the lies he's fed her," Jon said, his voice carried over to them as he glanced their way. Winter was eating scraps of dried meat from his hands, body pressed against his shins. "Winter is a part of me. You need not worry about who she would support if I fell."_

 _"You mentioned a horn once," Robb pointed out. "One with magical abilities that would enable a person to steal a dragon."_

 _Ned had forgotten about that story. Euron Greyjoy was a man that had, in several retellings of past lives, made Jon's body shake with barely suppressed rage at the memories of his deeds._

 _"Fool me once," Jon said, his hand running over Winter's neck, "shame on you. Fool me twice shame on me . . . Fooling me three times with the same trick is extremely difficult. I don't plan on giving him the chance."_

 _A knock sounded at the door along with Ser Jory's voice. Ned paced towards the heavy wooden door. "Yes, Ser Jory?"_

 _"Lord Umber is here to see you, my Lord," the guardsman said, voice calm and clear._

 _Ned glanced back at his sons. Robb had moved to stand between Jon, Winter, and the door. His face was set in a solemn mask which made his Stark features more prominent on his face to the point if it weren't for his red hair and bright blue eyes it may have drowned out the Tully in him. For his part, Jon was adjusting his tunic and jerkin, smoothing out a few wrinkles at the edge of his tunic where Winter had just been tugging in her requests for more food._

 _Grey Wind and Ghost had both slipped off the bed, he noticed, while Storm had lifted her head, ears perked and eyes staring his way. Grey Wind had moved to stand beside Robb and Ghost sat next to the bed with his ears quirked and attention set on the door._

 _"He may enter," Ned said, turning back to the doorway. "Thank you, Ser Jory."_

 _The door opened and within moments Greatjon Umber had slipped through. Ser Jory closed the door behind the lord, remaining at his post._

 _Greatjon greeted him before his eyes cast about the room, taking in the occupants. He found Jon and Winter last as they were partially hidden from his view by Robb._

 _"By the Gods," slipped from his lips, followed by a few other curses. He glanced back to Ned. "I know what you said, but still. Some things you damn well have to see yourself."_

 _Ned nodded in agreement and motioned Jon to step forward as Robb hesitantly stepped aside. His eldest was nervous for his brother, he could tell. This would be the first true northern lord or lady, and the first person outside of the Stark household, guard, and the wildlings, to be shown the truth. When they'd returned to the Wall the entire party, including the wildlings—who had done their best to steer clear of any 'crows' other than Benjen anyway—had returned to keeping mum on the subject of the dragon. Robb held the same fear Ned did, but lacked the ability to keep it tightly concealed._

 _"My lord," Jon said, bowing slightly as he stepped forward to officially greet Lord Umber._

 _"Ah, none of that shit," Greatjon waved away the nicety, lips tilting in a half grin. He stepped closer, surveying the boy. "Now that I know I can certainly see where you take after your mother. A bit less like your . . . uncle than at first glance. Lady Lyanna was a bit darker in coloring, her hair and eyes, and I can see that in you now. Bit of your father, too," his tone was a bit darker, "but I only saw him once and never up close." His eyes shifted to Winter who was peering towards him, her wings flaring slightly and mouth open just a tad. She was silent, though, the hissing-growl sound reserved for those she disliked not making an appearance. "Damn gorgeous beast. How old is it?"_

 _"About eight moons," Jon's hand curled over the back of her neck, just below her skull. She bumped her head backwards slightly, eyes slitting and mouth shutting. "She has a lot of growing to do yet." He glanced back up at Greatjon. "Her name is Winter."_

 _Greatjon's grin widened and he let out a loud, bellowing laugh. "A good name for the first northern dragon!"_

 _Winter quirked her head back towards him, the tops of her wings tilting down. She blinked._

 _"Aye," Jon smiled a little, hand dropping to his side when Winter took several steps forward, peering up at the tall lord, "it is."_

 _"And these direwolves of yours!" Ned watched as Lord Umber's attention slipped over to Grey Wind where the wolf had paced forward to stand next to Winter, eyes watching the lord's every movement. "They make me wish my ancestors had chosen a fierce beast for our house sigil! Perhaps I'd have a mountain lion, a bear, or even a damn trickster fox to fight at my side had they done so." Greatjon turned a wide smile to Ned. "You Starks have all the luck!"_

 _Unable to help smiling back at his bannerman, Ned shrugged. "So it seems," he agreed. "At least in this. When winter comes, we'll find out how lucky we truly are. Everyone will."_

* * *

The sun rose much earlier than Ned would have liked the morning after the feast. Unused to the position of the window to his bed, he found himself blinking awake as the light slowly crossed the room as it began to rise above the horizon. Dreams of chasing shadows through the forest and padding quietly across stone floors slipped away as his mind came to full wakefulness. While he hadn't drunk as much as he might have in Winterfell, a dull throb still pulsed at the back of his skull.

Groaning, he slid from the bed and crossed the way to where a pitcher of water had been set on a small table along with a basin to wash with. After drinking his fill and using the chamber pot, Ned busied himself with getting ready. He found himself having to maneuver around Storm's large shape where she had splayed herself over a large rug in the center of the room. She barely opened an eye to glance at him as he passed.

He was just adjusting the sleeves of one of the nicer shirts he'd brought with him when a knock sounded at the door.

"Father," Robb greeted him a moment later, after he'd waved his son inside the room. "Did you sleep well?"

"I did," Ned said, moving to finish dressing. "How did you and Jon sleep?"

"Well." Robb bit his cheek as he settled a hand on the back of a chair set next to a writing desk along the wall. "The direwolves went hunting last night," he said after a moment, eyes locking onto Storm who slit her left eye open to look back at him. "I dreamt it."

"Aye, they did," Ned confirmed, glancing up at his son. "Lord Umber made sure all his men were aware not to attack them while they were out."

"That's good," Robb said softly and then glanced over to him. "Did you dream it as well, Father?"

"Yes, I did."

Sighing, Robb leaned against the desk. "I wish I could control it like Jon. But it seems like all I can do is dream and get the occasional glimpse through his eyes."

"Jon has had a lot of practice," he pointed out as he adjusted is gear. "You, and I, have had perhaps a year to learn. These things take time." He crossed the room to set a hand on Robb's shoulder, squeezing gently. "You're progressing much quicker than I am," he professed with a wry grin. "I only share Storm's eyes in my dreams. You, at least, can get a glimpse when awake with some effort."

"It just seems impossible," Robb said, hands clenching.

Ned surveyed his son for a moment. He was doing so well, taking everything that had been thrown his way in stride and moving forward the best he could. It was obvious that Jon's leaps and bounds in various abilities—from scholarly knowledge to skill with a sword—had worn a bit on Robb who was used to being on par if not slightly ahead of his brother. The skill sets garnered over hundreds of lives, even if some had to be retrained onto a youthful body, making it seem like Robb faced an insurmountable mountain summit to catch up with Jon.

"Did Jon tell you it took him a half dozen lives to realize there was more to his connection with Ghost than the occasional shared feeling and dreams?"

Robb sighed and after a long moment nodded. "Aye, he did."

"Did he tell you how long he lived in those lives?" Ned asked and then continued without waiting for an answer. "My best estimate put it about thirty years, give or take a few, as at least one of those lives lasted but moons."

"I don't have thirty years to grow into my abilities," Robb said, a muscle jumping along his jaw. "Winter might be over by that time."

"It won't take you thirty years," Ned bumped his son's chin with his knuckles gently and tilted it up with a finger. "It may take me that long, but not you. You have Jon to teach you. The wildling, Breck, has been working with you. There will be other men and women among the Free Folk that you can speak with for advice as well."

"What if I'm not ready and things go wrong?"

"No one is every completely ready for the challenges laid before them," Ned said and gently cupped Robb's cheek, patting it gently with his fingertips. "We just do our best. We fight until we can't and then we keep on fighting for our home, for our family." He met Robb's eyes and put as much confidence as he could into his voice. "You will be ready, my son, we will all be as ready." As ready as they could be with hundreds of years of cumulative knowledge on the possible pathways life would take their family and the world over the next few years.

They had a better shot than any versions of themselves Jon had met before to make it to and through the long night and Ned was going to do his damned best to make sure his children made it through. All of them _._


	5. Interlude: Catelyn I

The sky had clouded over during the ride, a common sight this far North and one that made Catelyn miss her childhood home of Riverrun. While not hot by any means, the weather south past the neck was much warmer and the foliage a different kind of green. The sky bright blue far more often. She missed the warm summer months she'd spent running about Riverrun with her sister and even little Petyr. She tried to ignore the thought of him now, though.

Catelyn may have lived in the North for over thirteen years now—a few years more and she'll have lived here half her life—but she doubted she would ever get used to the cold. Today, though, she had foregone the thicker furs her husband gifted her. The cloak she wore now was rather thin compared to her usual fair, but it was beautifully embroidered by her own hand.

Nearby her daughter, Sansa, was riding a bay pony and no matter her southern, Tully, coloring her Stark blood was showing through as she had foregone the furs completely. Still, a hooded cloak was stored in one of Sansa's saddle bags should the weather turn.

Two guards followed close by and there were two more further back, allowing them the semblance of privacy while making a show of security to deter threats.

"Why are they digging out a trench?" Sansa asked, watching the workers as they slowly rode past them. She glanced at her mother, brow furrowed between her bright blue eyes. Her bright red hair was done back in a simpler, northern fashion today than what she'd been touting recently. Septa Mordane had begun styling her daughters long locks into the southern styles that had been favored in their youth more and more often. Sansa's young companions had also begun trying to mimic them as well.

Catelyn smiled at her daughter's curious expression. "The wall and its towers will need a good foundation. One cannot just build a wall from the soil up. For it to be strong and stand the test of ages a good foundation is paramount."

"Like Winterfell?"

"Yes," she nodded, glancing over Sansa's head towards the high walls and large castle in the distance, "Winterfell is built upon a very strong foundation and upon the catacombs."

"By Bran the builder," Sansa said as they passed a cart of building material and another that held provisions for the workers.

"That is what the legends say," Catelyn acknowledged, "and Winterfell's foundations have stood the test of time, even when the upper levels of the castle have needed to be rebuilt."

"Will this wall last a thousand years?" Sansa asked a while later as they passed a group of masons working where the base of a tower was being built.

"I don't know," she admitted to her daughter. "If well maintained, with luck, and if no battles are fought before it, then perhaps."

Building a new wall to surround Winterfell, Winter Town, and a large chunk of surrounding farmland—even cutting through the Wolfswood—had been a project that Ned initiated just before he left and tasked her to continue during his absence. They had brought in masons and workers from across the North, down through the neck, and even from the Riverlands. Most of the workers were contracted for multiple projects across the North and would likely stay in the region for some time.

It was not a small task to be sure, but during the moons her lord husband had been away they had gotten a good start on things. The gates and towers in their immediate vicinity had nearly finished construction, the land fully surveyed, and, where need be, leveled and cleared to build the wall itself. Stone was constantly arriving from nearby quarries Ned had ordered into production months before he left.

It had surprised her, how quickly things had gotten underway. Catelyn had known that the North was quite frugal, but she had been surprised of how much was in Winterfell's true coffers—within the hidden vault in the crypt her Lord husband had recently shown her, her eldest son Robb, and her . . . nephew Jon.

* * *

 _It wasn't often that Catelyn found herself within Winterfell's crypts, usually access was reserved for those with Stark blood, but she was bound by marriage and her children were Starks. They lit candles and laid mementos at the newest crypts—Ned's brother, parents, grandparents, and his sister—stopping for several minutes at each for Ned to reminisce. The longest pause was at Lyanna Stark's resting place._

 _Folding her hands in front of her, gripping the front of her skirt with her fingertips, Catelyn stared at the visage of her good sister._ I'm sorry, _she thought as she watched Jon light a candle and place it in the open hands of the statue._ I am sorry I couldn't see the child. That I never saw past the lie.

 _Robb settled a hand on Jon's shoulder, squeezing gently as Jon looked up at his mother's statue. The candle illuminated his face and reflected in his dark eyes. For a moment, she almost thought she could see a sheen of dark indigo over the dark grey orbs._

 _It was easier, since she knew the truth, but even now there were times her gut reaction was of anger, distrust, and resentment when she laid eyes on him. It was gone within moments, replaced by a slick, slimy shame that clung to her innards._

 _"She loved you," Ned's voice was a low rumble to Catelyn's right and she glanced over at him. There was a wetness glimmering at the edge his eyes she rarely saw. The first time he'd ever cried before her, truly let her in, was when she lost their second child, a year and a few moons before Sansa's birth. A boy, the Maester had said._

 _"She would have been proud of you."_

 _Jon ducked his chin, glancing back at them behind dark curls before turning his head to Robb who slid his arm up to wrap around his cousin's shoulders._

 _The pain of the babe's loss had, perhaps, darkened her opinion of Jon—then a toddler—even more. In some part of her mind she'd always thought her lost son would have taken Jon's place as Robb's childhood companion. Another boy might have allowed her husband's bastard to be shunted off, perhaps have enabled her to convince Ned to foster him elsewhere. The loss had brought them closer together, though, through the shared grief._

 _"How is it possible to miss something you never knew?" Jon's voice was soft, barely above a whisper._

 _Catelyn's heart clenched and a sharp cold like frozen lightning slid through her veins. She pressed her lips tight and felt moisture prick at her eyes. Jumping a little, she breathed in as a solid weight settled on her shoulder._

 _Glancing up she met her husband's grey eyes. His hand slid over her shoulder to the other side and pulled her to his side. Catelyn leaned against him and closed her eyes as he pressed a kiss against the side of her head._

 _"Because you never knew it," Robb's voice carried over to them and just made the pain that much worse. "There was a hole in me before Grey Wind, like you said there was a hole before Ghost and Winter. I think it must be like that only you're aware of it."_

 _"Because you witnessed what your . . . siblings have," Catelyn's voice was a hoarse, harsh whisper. "Because I couldn't love you." She drew away from Ned, stepped towards the boys._

 _Robb turned and stared at her, eyes wide in the dim light from the candle and torchlight. A second later Jon turned towards her as well; Robb's hand falling from his shoulder._

 _Jon's eyes darted between her and Ned before settling on her again. "You didn't know."_

 _She shook her head and paced towards him, one hand reaching out towards his face as if to cup his cheek. "But I made a promise," Catelyn said after a long moment as she pressed her fingers to his cheek. "I made an oath once and broke it after . . ." The words choked in her throat._

 _His hand pressed against the back of hers and she swallowed. "It doesn't matter," he said softly, "Aunt Catelyn. It doesn't matter anymore."_

 _But it did. It did matter to her._

 _"We should go," Ned's voice was rough, and he had cleared his throat before speaking, "We have a lot of walking to do, yet."_

* * *

The crypts went deep, and that night they had gone deeper than she had ever dreamed of going. Ned and Jon had held the torches as they passed the resting places of generations of Starks. The farther down they went, the more held not only statues of men, but also statues of direwolves. The wolves stood as stalwart guards at the sides of Kings and the final resting places seemed just a tad wider. As they drew closer to their destination, Ned had started explaining things in a low voice that she nearly had to strain to hear.

At some point, generations upon generations back, a Stark King had made a decision and had bound his children to an oath. The relatively simple style of living of the North, that House Stark ascribed to, wasn't just a way of life. Although Catelyn knew that the Starks and other Houses put aside part of their coffers for the long months and years of Winter, she had never expected what she had seen.

One might have expected the oath to be broken at some point; that somewhere along the line an heir would have used what was hidden away and lived lavishly, but none had. Perhaps the North wasn't as rich as the Lannisters, the Tyrells, or half a dozen other southern houses. But they didn't need gold mines or rich harvests.

Somewhere along the line a percentage of every year's taxes and any transaction that passed through Winterfell's coffers was transferred here. Gold, silver, other precious metals, gemstones . . . everything from raw materials to recently minted gold dragons. All to prepare for an eventuality, a legend.

No Stark had ever broken the oath, splurged on the wealth gathered by generations. And, more importantly, no Stark had ever forgotten. Somehow the vault had always been found and the inscription upon the door—redone in half a dozen dialects over the centuries—had always been followed.

For, as Catelyn has come to know, the North remembered.

Even when they believed the legends long gone; the North remembered.

"My lady," a cart driver called a greeting as he passed them, his cart filled with gravel.

She nodded back, a smile gracing her lips.

This was not the first time Catelyn had taken a ride to see the progress, usually with Ser Rodrik and Winterfell's Master Builder Byford at her side. Today both were attending other duties and she had left them to do it, deciding instead to bring her daughter along. Sansa had much to learn and after a discussion with Ned she'd decided to try and break her daughters head from the clouds. To distract her from the dreams of knights and princes and ground her in reality. It scared her to think how unprepared Sansa had been for the harsh life she had been forced into in some of the tales Ned had told her.

"How long will it take before its completed?" Sansa asked, and Catelyn glanced towards her.

She smiled at her daughter. "Many moons. There are many, many factors that could affect progress, so it is near impossible to give an exact estimate. Master Builder Byford says they are ahead of schedule, but right now the weather is good, we have an abundance of man power as there is time before the next harvest, and the quarries producing a steady supply. If all goes well perhaps a year or two and the majority will be completed. Maybe less."

As they rode, inspecting the work that had been completed, she couldn't help but be astonished. So much progress had been made already, both here and in Winter Town

Her eyes landed on the nearby tent city that had arisen, neat rows of hardy tents constructed on her orders to house the workers. A few more permanent buildings had been created as well, a large kitchen to facilitate feeding the men, a tavern operated by a young couple from Winter Town, and an offshoot of a brothel from the town.

"We should be heading back," Catelyn pulled on her horse's reins gently, turning it back towards the road, planning to return through Winter Town.

Sansa didn't disagree; her mother had been quite clear that she and the rest of her siblings were to avoid the tent city. While Winterfell and Winter Town's guard had a presence, there were many individuals there not beholden to the North. Catelyn had already sentenced two men to the wall due to liberties they had taken with residences of Winter Town and the tent city. She had the guard actively patrolling the town at all hours for trouble makers. The tent city was harder to regulate.

"How long until Father returns?" Sansa asked a while later as they passed by several buildings being constructed at the edge of Winter Town. "They've been gone so long."

"Soon, they left Last Hearth under a fortnight ago," Catelyn said, smiling as several smallfolk greeted them.

"I miss Robb and Jon," Sansa said, chewing on her lip. "It's not the same without them or Father."

Catelyn couldn't help but agree; there was a marked difference to the castle without their presence and it wasn't just the lord of the castle being absent and his duties falling to her and Ser Rodrik. It was the man himself, his strong presence and demeanor. She missed him, whole heartedly missed her husband.

When he left, things between them had just begun to settle back to how they had been prior to his revelation of Jon's parentage. The thought still sent a tiny cascade of anger through her bones. For so long she had treated the boy as if he was nothing to her. Treated him with indifference at best and did everything she could to shun him.

The anger was always followed by a dark shroud of guilt. Guilt for trying to keep Jon away from his family, for effectively locking him out of events and milestones in his cousins lives, for wishing him _dead_ on multiple occasions.

* * *

 _"Shhh," Catelyn rocked Robb gently, soothing her child with gentle murmurs. He was sniffling against her neck, fingers of one hand tangling in her hair while the other grasped at her shirt, clenching above her breast._

 _She had awoken a short time ago, perhaps a dream or the shift in temperature in her chamber had driven her from sleep. It was early in the morning, hours before first light, and unable to fall back asleep she had made her way to the nursery to check on her son._

 _There were several women, a wet-nurse and nursemaids, employed by her lord husband. One of the nursemaids was sitting in a chair near the hearth in the nursery when she arrived, a young northern woman name Della. She'd looked up upon Catelyn's arrival and stood, smiling tiredly._

 _"The young Lord has been a bit fussy tonight," her voice had been soft, almost a whisper. "He just fell asleep a few minutes ago."_

 _"Thank you, Della," Catelyn had told her, reaching for her son. "I shall take it from here, for a while. Go take a break for a bit, I don't plan to head back to bed for some time."_

 _"Are you sure, my lady?" Della had asked, glancing quickly at the other side of the room._

 _Catelyn had refused to follow her gaze. "I am sure."_

 _"When would you like me to return, my lady?"_

 _"Return in an hour and I will give you further instructions then."_

 _It wasn't often that Catelyn allowed the nursemaids or Wylla, the bastard's wet-nurse, to leave her alone with the child. Usually if she arrived they would remove the babe from her vicinity. While Catelyn would have preferred not to have her child sharing a room or attendants with his base born sibling, her Lord husband had disagreed with the sentiment, insisting that the child would grow to know his half-sibling and any other children she might bear him._

 _Sometimes Catelyn wished that she might not bear any further children; in the darker moments when she wasn't thinking ill of the bastard's continued existence. If only that would mean that she wouldn't have to share a bed with her lord husband who had dishonored her again. But she wanted children, many children, and another, stronger, part of her insisted that more children would secure their birthright over any claim the bastard might attempt. She only wished that the Ned she went to at night was still the picturesque, honorable-in-all-ways man that had smiled shyly at her in the sept moments before they were married. The look and the night they spent together had given her so much hope for the future._

 _Until he had arrived home with a bastard in tow that he told her, his face a solemn, icy mask, had been born several moons after her own son._

 _As she rocked Robb, shushing him quietly, a low murmur of noise caught her ear. She clenched her jaw as a burbling cry called out into the room. She ignored it for some time, choosing instead to continue the rocking motion that seemed to keep Robb quieted, until her son grew restless from the relatively quiet cries from the basinet against the far wall._

 _Lips tight, she paced across the room and stared into the crib, eyes finding watery grey orbs staring up at the ceiling. The babe's cheeks were slightly pink and his head of wispy dark hair thicker than when she had last seen him. He seemed to notice her and quieted, one hand reaching up towards her._

 _Pressing her lips tightly together, she eyed him before reaching in and touching his cheek for the briefest of moments. The babe was too warm, she could tell even without touching him from the sight of his rosy cheeks. A blanket covered most of his body, so she tugged it down to let the cool air reach more of his skin._

 _Catelyn eyed him for a moment longer before she could not stand to look at him further. Then she turned away, striding back to the other side of the room, To Robb's side of the room. She ignored the little whimpers from the bastard's basinet, few though they were, for the rest of the night until the nursemaid returned._

* * *

"Mother! Mother!" Bran called out as he ran into the room where she, Sansa, and a disgruntled Arya were bent over fabric, carefully embroidering details into the cloth.

She had dismissed Septa Mordane an hour ago, along with Jeyne Poole and Sansa's other companions. While she had just meant to keep Arya late as her youngest daughter had disappeared for over half her lessons over the past sennight, Sansa had decided to stay as well.

Summer, his paws still too large for his body skidded into the room behind Bran. Within moments he noticed his sisters and bounded over to them. Glancing their way, she frowned in annoyance at the sight of Nymeria chewing a skein of thread.

"No running," Sansa scolded before quickly snapping her mouth shut and glancing over at Catelyn.

Eyebrow raised, Catelyn looked pointedly at her son and he bit his lip, feet shuffling in place as he stopped before her. "What have I told you about running in the castle?"

"Not to," he mumbled, eyes falling to the ground.

"Will you do it again?"

"No."

"Bran," she put force behind her words and he sighed in response.

"I promise I won't run in the castle again," he recited and then glanced up at his mother.

She shook her head slightly, sighing, and smiled at him. "Now what has you in such a hurry?" she asked, setting aside the jerkin she was working on.

"A scout has returned!" he exclaimed, features brightening. "Father, Robb, and Jon will be here within an hour!"

Arya perked up in the corner of Catelyn's vision, chewing on her lip and glancing towards the door. Her needle was haphazardly stabbed through the flower she had been attempting to create out of blue thread.

Catelyn's youngest daughter was not an expert at the womanly arts, though she was sure it was more due to her dislike of the work and love of all things that a young boy should be doing. Every time she scolded Arya for missing her lessons or running from the Septa or sword fighting with the boys Catelyn felt a tiny bit of guilt spark within her. But it was for Arya's own good. One day she would marry and become a lady of her own castle; she needed to learn the arts and skills that befit a lady.

"Mother?" Sansa asked, biting her lip as she looked up from her own project. It was an image of all eight direwolves dancing together—she had added the eighth to the image after hearing of her Uncle Benjen's black direwolf in a letter from Robb while he'd been at Castle Black. A stream ran through the field in the image and Catelyn had caught sight of the trout within it. So far it was beautifully done, each direwolf captured in near perfect coloring from Jon's Ghost to Rickon's dark colored direwolf.

Catelyn sighed heavily, playing the moment up for her children. "All right," she said finally. "All right, you may go."

A grin blossomed across Arya's face and she practically tossed her fabric and needle away, standing in an instant.

"After you _both_ clean up the supplies properly. Everything has its place and I expect everything to be placed away correctly." Catelyn looked pointedly at Arya at this, whose cheeks reddened a little at the scolding.

"Yes, Mother," Sansa said, smiling sweetly as she stood and began to clean up after herself.

Out of the corner of her eye, Catelyn saw Arya roll her eyes at her sister, mimicking her words silently. This time she would overlook it, but she would not forget the occurrence.

"Bran," Catelyn turned back to her son. "Please go let Rickon's nursemaid know that I shall be up in about half an hour to retrieve him. Go straight there and—"

"And no running!" Bran called as he nodded, backing out of the room. "Yes, Mother!"

Catelyn pursed her lips to hide the grin that wanted to force its way onto her face and shook her head, sighing to herself. She had thought that Robb and Jon had been trouble, but lately it seemed Arya and Bran were ten times the trouble they had ever been.

Perhaps it had something to do with Jon attempting to keep on her good side as much as possible when he was younger.

She pushed the thought away. It wouldn't do any good to dwell on the past. What-might-have-beens would never come to pass—not for her—and she had no need to focus on them.

But still.

Sometimes she thought of how different Winterfell might have been those first few years had her lord husband told her the truth and if she had allowed herself to care for the little bastard boy who followed her son everywhere. She liked to think there would have been more laughter and more love within the house. Perhaps the love she and Ned shared would have sparked and grown like wildfire instead of simmered over time.

She was glad, at least, that he was no longer keeping secrets from her. The last secret he claimed he held had been shared with her just days before his departure. Catelyn still wasn't entirely sure what to think of it, but Ned believed it and enough proof had been brought before her that she did as well. But still, it was a fantastic, horrible tale that made her weep for the pain her family had faced.

* * *

" _You had asked me before if there were any other secrets I was keeping from you," Ned had said to her as they settled into bed. He was seated on the edge, back to her as he stared out the window. The room had been too warm for even her tastes, so they had opened it for a bit._

 _She glanced up at him from where she'd turned down her side of the bed, eying the line of his shoulders. "I did," Catelyn acknowledged, "and you told me that the only secret you still held from me was not yours to tell. You said that one day you would share it with me."_

 _He nodded, a sharp tilt of his chin, his dark hair dancing across his shoulders and baring a scar near his neck. "I wish to share it, if you would hear it."_

" _I would hear it," she said after a few moments, forcing herself to sit in the bed, back to the headboard._

 _Ned turned then, shifting his legs to rest on the bed, his body remaining on top of the furs. Reaching out he took her hand gently, twining their fingers together._

" _When I told you of Jon's parentage I said he had learned the truth and I felt it was time to share it with you as well," he said quietly, eyes staring at their joined hands._

" _You did," Catelyn said, lips pursing together. It had angered her, somewhat, that Ned had told the boy before telling her. Then she had calmed down and admitted to herself that it was only right that he learned of his mother's name before her . . . if they both had to have waited so long._

" _I never said how he learned of it."_

 _She frowned, wondering where he was going with this. Ned had already explained that, outside of Jon, only two living people had known of the boy's parentage when he told her: Lord Howland Reed and the wet-nurse Wylla who had gone south to serve the Daynes a bit after Jon's third name day._

 _He looked up at her, meeting her gaze, his grey eyes serious and face solemn. "What I am about to share with you is unbelievable, but true. I swear upon the Old Gods and the New."_

 _Catelyn's brow furrowed and she felt his hand tighten around hers ever-so-slightly._

" _I never told him. Jon came to me and confronted me on it," Ned said voice dropping to a near breathless whisper, just loud enough for her to hear. "He knew of it and other details he shouldn't. And what he told me . . . it seems impossible but it is the complete truth."_

 _A chill ran down her spine and she gripped his hand back. "What did he tell you?" Catelyn asked, voice shaking slightly with nerves._

" _He said that this life was not his first. That when his direwolf was born he woke up," Ned's eyes pleased with her to believe him, "with memories of other lives lived. Lives where our family was torn apart and he and our children died long before their time."_

* * *

She had taken the news surprisingly well and while it had only barely stoked the anger at her husband indignation had grown on behalf of the other versions of herself who had never been told but more so for Jon who had faced so many lives a motherless bastard in the eyes of the world, bereft of truly belonging to a family.

Portions of the story had nearly thrown her into a murderous rage. To think that little Petyr . . . by the Seven what a horrible monster he had become! Worse in many ways then the description of the Bolton's bastard Ramsay and _by the Seven!_ what she wanted to do to that creature for what he'd done to her daughter and so many others. The man would never come within leagues of her children if she could help it.

And yet she knew that what little Ned had told her those few days before he'd left, Jon and Robb in tow, was nothing but the tip of the iceberg. There was so much more, but all he would tell her was that to hear it would break her heart.

Catelyn was glad that he—and Jon—had chosen to trust her in this. There were some things among the plans her lord husband was making that needed a woman's touch. Places and people that a woman could deal with that a man was not as adept with.

After retrieving Rickon, her youngest wearing his nicest outfit and toddling along with her for much of the way, she met the household in the courtyard. The servants milled about for a short time while she ensured her children were rounded up and ready to welcome their father and his party home.

When the guards announced the impending arrival, the men just minutes away, everyone sorted themselves out and stable boys readied themselves to do their duty.

It felt like years had passed from when she had last laid eyes on Ned and she wrung her hands together as she watched his horse approach at the front of the column. Robb and Jon rode behind him, both looking well and as if they had grown during their absence. All three of their direwolves trotted behind them. She looked them over for just bare moments before locking her eyes on Ned.

It seemed like ages from when he dismounted and handed off the reins to the closest stable boy to when he strode forward to reach her. She barely heard the squeals of "Robb!" and "Jon!" and the patter of running feet as her children greeted their siblings so intent was she on the man before her.

"I missed you, my lady," Ned was the first to speak, voice low so only she could hear.

Her lips slipped into a smile and she blinked away moisture in her eyes. "And I you," she replied just as softly.

A moment later she was in his arms and he in hers, their lips pressing sweetly together. She had missed him so much and she dared hope that he would not need to go away again for some time, not for so long. If he tried to, she might insist on going with!

"And I climbed to the top of the stables!" She heard Bran exclaim in some distant portion of her mind. The comment was filed away for future punishment to be arranged.

That night, after a feast welcoming them home where Jon had been dragged to join the family at the head table—much to his embarrassed happiness and a press of sadness on her heart—they turned in together in the lord's chamber.

As they settled in, both tired from a long day of travel and a long day of chasing after young children respectively Catelyn settled her head onto her husband's chest.

"Rumors have spread through the North," she said, finger idly following a scar across his chest.

"Oh?"

"They've even spread as far as Riverrun," Catelyn continued, lifting her head to look at him. "Edmure sent me a letter laughing of them. He said that they speak of an ice dragon having arisen in the North that it is an omen of a harsh winter soon to come."

The edges of Ned's lips quirked.

"He also told me that the rumors say the Starks have it and plan to use it to control the coming storms," she said before she pressed her lips against his for a moment.

He drew back and didn't bother holding back the grin this time. "Perhaps we will."

Catelyn smiled back and then rested her head against his chest, settling in. For a few minutes the only sounds in the room were those of their breaths. "I think you should send the letter," she murmured, voice muffled slightly.

"Are you sure?" he asked quietly, his warm breath brushing against the crown of her head.

"Yes," she clutched at him, gently pressing her fingers into his skin. "It's long overdue. Send it in the morning." She closed her eyes and breathed out, relaxing into her husband and the soft furs of their bed.

Catelyn had made an oath once. It was time she kept it.


	6. Interlude: Jon Arryn I

Moat Cailin was a sight to behold, especially with the construction currently besieging it. The stronghold was arguably one of the best and most defensible ones in the seven kingdoms, having kept the North safe from invasion by the South for thousands of years, and yet it had, until a year past, been sitting in near ruins. Only three of its original twenty towers had remained standing and the tall basalt wall had lain in pieces, long destroyed. Now a wooden keep had been constructed along with a dozen other buildings to support the workers currently rebuilding the towers and portions of the walls.

This trip north had been quickly arranged, planned over several months and Jon had to rush to arrange for Lord Stannis to stand in as Hand before he uprooted his family from their home in the Red Keep for the journey. He felt it couldn't be helped, however, not with Ned's recent letters and requests of the crown. Each had concerned him on different levels to the point that he felt that a face to face conversation would serve better than letters where truth was easily avoided—often to prevent prying eyes from learning secrets.

Jon needed to understand what was going through the mind of the man he had raised and mentored, for he was having a difficult time making sense of Ned's goals. So, he had reached out to the Stark Lord and to the Tullys to arrange a meeting under the guise of a family reunion. It had been too long since his lady wife had seen her family and a large part of him hoped that time spent with them would calm her increasingly erratic behavior. Jon also thought it would do his son, Robert, good to see his cousins. Perhaps the trip, and Lady Catelyn, could convince Lysa to stop _breastfeeding_ the boy for Seven's sake.

After a month of ravens being exchanged plans had formed quickly and it had been decided, much to his surprise, for the meeting to take place at Moat Cailin rather than Winterfell or Riverrun.

He had heard that Ned was rebuilding portions of the old castle, refortifying it and creating a small port near the mouth of Fever River as well. Another decision to delve into the reasoning behind. As he learned more and more of what was going on in the North, Jon had naught but more _questions_ to ask his former foster son. Something clearly had him spooked if the rumors were to be believed.

The trip had also given him the chance to meet with a variety of houses, mostly smaller ones, along the way, treating with them as Hand of the King and Lord Paramount of the Vale. He was surprised at how proud many of the families were to be receiving attention while there was an undercurrent of near disenfranchisement with the current rule that none could not hide from him. Jon didn't speak of it, didn't let the fact that he had noticed show in his words or actions.

Two new towers had already been completed and a great deal of progress was being made on a third along with the walls closest to the keep, stone rising as high as the original three towers and built upon the older foundations. Many of the stones had likely been repurposed from the one that had fallen there before. Workers stilled to watch as his retinue passed and in turn they slowed to get a good look at the construction.

Upon reaching the keep, he could see that the Starks had brought with them a large party of their own, members of their household and guard lined up behind the family. Ned stood tall, a wide smile on his face, beside Lady Catelyn and her children. They were arranged mostly from oldest to youngest, but for one that must have been little Rickon holding fast to her skirt. Ned's oldest son, standing next to his mother, looked older than Ned had been when Jon had first laid eyes on his former charge.

Construction work upon the inner section of the keep and walls had been paused for their arrival. The courtyard mostly silent except for the sounds echoing in from outside.

"Lord Arryn," Lord Stark called as Jon dismounted his horse. The wheelhouse carrying Lysa and their son following a short distance behind him. "I welcome you and your family to Moat Cailin."

"It has been too long, Lord Stark." Jon grinned honestly for what felt like the first time in a long while.

"Too long," Ned agreed, smiling. "Lady Arryn," he acknowledged her presence a moment later as Jon's wife walked up, little Robert holding onto her hand. The boy was a bit pale, but otherwise had weathered the trip relatively well. The Maester that Jon had arranged to travel with them, one he trusted from the Vale, had been keeping a close watch on the boy's health and handling any medications he thought necessary—discarding those that he did not think prudent for the boy to be taking—much to Lysa's dislike.

"Lord Stark," Lysa said shortly, still unable to let go her anger over having to make this trip. She managed a small smile for her sister though. "Catelyn."

"Lysa," Catelyn smiled and stepped forward to take her sister's hand, "it seems like it has been forever since I last saw you."

"Perhaps you should come visit some time," Lysa said shortly, but squeezed Catelyn's hand gently. "You might like King's Landing. It has changed over the years."

"I'm not sure about that," Catelyn said and her smile seemed forced to Jon's surprise, "but I shall think on it. It would be nice to see you more often." Her eyes landed on Robert who had shifted to hide behind his mother's skirts. "And this must be young Robert . . . or Robin I believe you call him?"

Lysa nodded and gently pulled their son to stand in front of her. "Sweetrobin, this is your Aunt Catelyn. I've told you of her."

He watched her with wide, curious but cautious eyes.

Catelyn just smiled and stepped back a pace, letting go of her sister's hand.

"Lady Catelyn," Jon said then, stepping forward to greet his goodsister. "You have only grown more beautiful with time, just as my lady wife has."

"Thank you, Lord Arryn." Catelyn tilted her head in acknowledgement.

"And these are your children." He looked them over from the smallest to the tallest.

"My eldest son and heir, Robb," Ned introduced each. "Our daughters Sansa and Arya, our son Bran, who is just a year older than your Robert, and our youngest Rickon."

Jon Arryn raised an eyebrow. "Your entire family has come? I thought there was that saying that the Stark family ascribed to: _There must always be a Stark in Winterfell._ I believe?"

"Benjen is currently in Winterfell," Ned said, nodding, "on business for the Night's Watch. He is organizing the recruits that have been arriving for the Watch, along with the tradesmen King Robert has sent, and will be there for several more moons. If he has need to leave before then Robb and Jon will ride to Winterfell."

Jon nodded before glancing about. "And where is my namesake?"

Ned smiled and glanced over his shoulder; he gave a short nod and it was but a moment before a boy stepped forward. He had the Stark look, more so than any of his siblings save perhaps the youngest girl, Arya. He was also a tad shorter than his brother, slighter of build as well. While Jon Snow looked very much like Ned, there were subtle differences in his build and look that differed from how Ned had looked when he was four and ten.

"This is my natural son, Jon Snow."

The boy stared at him, cool grey eyes peering out from a solemn face, dark curly hair crowning his head as Jon Arryn got his first good look of the boy that had been named for him.

Jon Snow was also one of the reasons behind Jon Arryn's visit.

* * *

 _Jon stared at the letter in front of him, eyes skimming over sentence after sentence before turning back to the beginning and starting over. Without a doubt this was the longest letter he had ever received from Ned, outside of the annual reports required of the Warden of the North alongside taxes, and the subject matter was highly varied and . . . strange._

 _A large portion of the letter was devoted to requests on behalf of the Night's Watch—requests that had apparently been ignored by the crown, the majority of the Lords across most of the Seven Kingdoms, and even the Citadel. There was something about the subject matter of every topic within the letter that had alarm bells sounding in the back of his mind. In all the years that Ned had been Lord Stark and Warden of the North not once had he made requests for the Watch; in fact, he was quite succinct in general with the North's business as well._

 _Now though? Not only was he reporting the initiation of dozens of construction projects across the North, some in the capable hands of his bannermen, but he was exercising his authority to make demands upon the Night's Watch. One that Jon couldn't remember any Stark doing in recent memory. There were lists of requests for supplies, man power, ships, and at least three Maesters._

 _The request for man power wasn't new, the Watch always sent out requests and recruiters for more men, but they were requesting skilled laborers even notating that they were willing to take temporary workers in exchange for missed taxes to help rebuild castles along the Wall that had fallen into disrepair and to help train up members of the watch to a higher standard._

 _It seems, going through the carefully copied documents that Ned stated he personally retrieved from Lord Commander Mormont, that lords from every kingdom, except for the North, had been ignoring their obligations to the Watch—even as the crown lessened those obligations considerably over the years. He supposed it made sense, whereas the South in general saw the Watch as a glorified penal colony, the North still saw it as an honorable place to serve and find glory._

 _The requests for the Watch and the notices of construction in places such as Moat Cailin and Queenscrown were surprising enough, but there was another point in the letter that has Jon Arryn's mind whirling in confusion. Ned made a point of letting him know he had also sent a letter to King Robert advising him that he was awaiting a response to a letter he had sent his friend several weeks prior._

 _It hadn't taken long for Jon to dig the letter out of the pile Robert had handed over, unopened, requesting he respond to. He thought that perhaps his former foster son hadn't bothered to check the seals for surely if he had realized a letter was there from Ned he would have opened it._

 _Following the niceties and general news and good will wishes was a request. A request for Ned's bastard son, Jon Snow, to be legitimized by the crown._

 _It had thrown Jon, for last he had heard from his lady wife her sister still complained about the bastard's presence in Winterfell. Lysa certainly liked to complain about him and the stain on her sister's—and Ned's—honor as often as she could. She oft complained a lot about all manner of subjects, however, circling back from present day woes to childhood complaints on a lark._

 _He glanced from one letter to the other and his brow furrowed. Ned was rebuilding Moat Cailin and Queenscrown. A castle for one of his younger trueborn sons and another for his bastard, perhaps?_

 _Sighing, he glanced at the window, judging the time, and stood, pocketing the letters. It took him a while to track the King down, which sadly was not out of the ordinary. While Jon did care greatly for the man, having practically raised him, for a King he did very little actual ruling. Instead he chose to leave governing to his small council and his Hand—Jon himself._

 _There were fleeting moments when Jon wished that near anyone else was on the throne instead. Ned would have ruled with honor, Lord Tywin for all the trouble that would have caused at least would have ruled, Lord Stannis if he thought someone in the realm needed a hard hand, or, when he was feeling particularly annoyed, even himself as it seemed he often spent more time sitting on the throne than Robert did._

 _King Robert Baratheon was taking a late brunch in the gardens, blessedly bereft of whores, surrounded by serving woman that he was flirting wildly with. They were all beautiful, handpicked no doubt by the King himself as he was wont to do if his Queen wasn't about. His eye nearly twitched at the sight, thinking about what plans would need to be made should one of the woman, as they no doubt would give in to the King;s passions, should bear a child._

 _He loved Robert but sometimes he wished he could run away to the Vale and watch as the realm fell apart. Jon had spent the last fourteen years picking up after the man's messes._

" _Pardon the interruption, your grace," Jon started, securing only a slightly irritated look form the King._

 _Robert surveyed him for a moment, only minutely hesitating in waving away the servants for the time being. "What ill begotten news do you have for me, Lord Hand?"_

" _I received a letter from Lord Stark, as did the crown . . . and you also received a personal letter that ended up within the documents you asked me to look over for your grace." Jon stepped closer, sitting when Robert bid him to._

 _His former foster son's eyes lit up at word of his foster brother. "A letter from Ned?" he laughed, grinning widely. "Where is it then?"_

 _Jon Arryn retrieved it and quickly handed it over, setting the letter for the crown on the table in front of himself as well. He watched as Robert read over the letter, taking in the minute facial changes. Ned did not write to the King much and Robert treasured each letter he received from the man._

" _Draw up the legitimization papers and I shall sign them," Robert said, setting the letter on the table beside his dish. He made a motion in the air and moments later a servant arrived at the beckon of his guard to fill the King's goblet. As he drank he picked up the letter for the crown and reviewed it as well._

 _Jon waited for him to set the letter aside before speaking. "I will have the documents drawn up. What should be done about the other requests?"_

 _Robert made a face as he cut into a summer sausage. "Remind me to bring it up at the next small council. We will decide what support to lend and what we can afford to give. Does he speak of why this is suddenly so important to him in the letter you received?"_

" _No," Jon said, honestly a bit surprised at the King's caution when it came to Ned's requests. Most that Lord Stark had made in the past were met with immediate support. Perhaps Lord Baelish's discussion of the crown's debt at the last meeting the King attended had sunk in somewhat for once. "Ned is not one to make requests without reason, however."_

" _What reason could there be?" Robert scoffed between bites. "Wildling raiders roving south of the wall to find food for winter? If he's worried about them stealing from his bannermen or the small folk I can send him troops to garrison the wall. A few hundred or a thousand green young men needing to draw their first blood could beat back those savages with ease. And it would provide some much-needed experience."_

 _But soldiers weren't what Ned and Jeor Mormont were requesting. "And the builders?"_

" _The letter said they weren't going to be required to take the Black, didn't it?"_

" _That is correct," Jon affirmed. "It seems they are requesting temporary services to affect repairs upon some of the castles along the wall. They would not need to take the vows just respect the Watch's authority while they work."_

" _I see no reason why we cannot provide builders and laborers on a temporary basis, if they truly need it," Robert pointed towards the letter to the crown which contained the list of lords who owed taxes—the crown itself was near the top of the list—and continued, "especially those that owe back taxes. A ridiculous number of lords have neglected their duty it seems."_

" _And the educated men and Maesters?"_

" _Pen an ultimatum of some sort to the Citadel." Roberts face darkened. "They should have sent a replacement for the old Targaryen years ago, knowing their proclivities," he spat._

 _Jon bit his tongue. Maester Aemon by all reports was the complete opposite of the late King Aerys in disposition. Perhaps if he had been King the realm wouldn't have fallen into disarray and a rebellion wouldn't have been needed._

" _At least the old man had the foresight to exile himself to the wall," Robert continued, grumbling into his cup._

" _Lord Stark implies that Maester Aemon is in rather poor health," Jon put in, picking up the letter to the crown. "He will not be a worry for much longer." His words were intended to soothe and placate._

 _Robert scoffed._

" _I will see you at the small council meeting this afternoon then?" Jon asked, switching subjects and pushing his chair back from his table._

" _Yes, Yes," Robert said, waving him away._

 _Jon bowed and moved to leave._

" _Remember those papers!" Robert called out suddenly. "If Ned wants his bastard to bear his name then he shall." He 'hmmed thoughtfully as he reached for plate of sweet bread. "Perhaps I should think about legitimizing one or two of mine . . . my girl in the Vale. What is her name?"_

 _Jon Arryn sighed and turned, moving to return the table. He would have to unravel this mess before Queen Cersei heard word of Robert's musings. Hopefully Jon could prevent him from making a mistake that would lead to someone's murder._

" _Mya Stone."_

" _Yes, her!" Robert nodded to himself. "I could use another daughter to marry off."_

* * *

Jon chuckled, watching as Ned's eldest boys, Robb Stark and Jon Snow, walked his son, Bran Stark, and Arya Stark through the correct grip and how to aim small bows, carefully crafted for young children. The draw strength was so small the blunted arrows would do little but flop to the ground a few feet away. Robb was working with his cousin while Jon carefully placed his younger brother's fingers. Arya stood a step away, staring intently and copying the placement with her own fingers.

His son looked a bit pale today, but his cough had mostly subsided in the last couple of weeks under the care of Maester Haburt who Jon had called from a loyal Vale house to accompany them on the road. Robert also hadn't experienced more than one shaking episode during the trip. Jon had spent as much time as he could with the boy on the road, but he had been unable to separate him from his lady wife's side for long. At least until they arrived. The Stark children and Lady Catelyn had managed what he had been unable to; separating mother and son so that little Robert could have some time out from under his mother's control.

Each day Robert had spent more time with his cousins than with anyone else and Lady Catelyn seemed to have made it her own prerogative to spend as much time as possible with Lysa. Jon wasn't quite sure what to make of it for it seemed as if it wasn't just Lady Catelyn's desire to spend time with her sister who she had not seen for years. In fact, there was a tenseness around his goodsister's eyes when she thought no one was watching if Lysa was nearby.

"I was very surprised when we received the legitimization request," Jon spoke as he stood beside Ned on the battlement. They had a good view of the courtyard as well as the construction on the nearby towers from where they stood. "I was rather shocked as Lysa had given me the impression that Lady Catelyn . . ." he glanced at his foster son, ". . . despised the boy and that she was unhappy that he is being raised in Winterfell." It was an oft heard complaint over the years from what Lysa had spoken of with him.

Several times she had suggested—and he had done so in part due to his love for Ned—that he offer to foster the boy with one of the Vale lords. Each offer had been declined with a perfunctory _'thank you, but no thank you'_ letter.

Ned grimaced. "She was not," he confirmed, his previous smile falling away, "but since Rickon's birth she has . . . had a change of heart regarding Jon."

 _A third boy, plus two girls, did lengthen the line of inheritance considerably_ , he thought. His lips twisted and he narrowed his eyes slightly as he watched the children. Arya and Bran were glaring at each other while Jon had a hand on both their shoulders, leaning down to speak with them. _Usually more children in a line of succession meant it was less likely for a bastard to be legitimized, though._

Ned continued speaking into the silence as Jon mulled over his words. "I believe she sees him more as . . . perhaps a nephew now."

Jon's eyes shifted to Ned for a moment and then looked back down at the boy who was grinning widely, watching as both Arya and Bran stood side by side in identical positions. "Oh?" he asked, eyebrow raising. "Do you know what exactly spurred this change in attitude?" He glanced back at Ned in time to see a guilt cross his features before disappearing behind a solemn mask.

"I know only what she has told me," Ned said, sighing. "She did not wish to share details, but she was the one to bring up legitimizing him when we began work here and at Queenscrown."

"You are going to gift him a hold?" Jon asked, staring in surprise at the other man. It wasn't unheard of, for lords to gift their bastard's a hold and even legitimize them into a cadet branch. House Stark had done it multiple times and even House Targaryen had. Sometimes it turned out well and the new House became staunchly loyal to their originator. Other times, such as with House Blackfyre, wars ensued.

"Perhaps," Ned hedged with a sigh, a small smile quirked his lips as he glanced towards Jon Snow. "He would do well as a lord of a hold, but I am unsure if that is what he wants."

While Jon had been sure that Ned was lying or at least avoiding providing him the truth earlier, in this, at least, he could tell he was being honest.

"And what does he wish to do then?" Jon asked, he was truly curious as prospects for bastards—even legitimized—north of Dorne were not generally the best unless they were considered the heir due to lack of trueborn progeny. Most Houses kept their bastards far from their trueborn children to prevent legitimization issues. It was why he had brought two of King Robert's bastards with him to send them to the Night's Watch. Being exiled to the Wall was likely their best option in life at this point.

"He has stated repeatedly that he wishes nothing more than to keep his family and home safe," Ned said softly. "It is a cause I believe to be central to his entire being. I have no doubt that he would do near anything to keep Robb and the other children safe." A small, sad smile graced his face. "That is why I do not know if he would accept a hold of his own. He may, once his siblings are older and finding their own place in the world. Or he may stay by Robb's side in Winterfell until his last day."

Jon nodded in thought, turning back to watch the children only to see his son failing to pull back the weak bowstring. He sighed, wishing there was more he could do for his son's health and hoping that the new maester, Maester Haburt, would be able to locate the root of the cause and find a better treatment than those provided in King's Landing.

His eyes caught on a flash of white at the corner of the courtyard. Four of the Stark's direwolves—the smaller, younger ones—were darting around a corner, the pure white one at the front with something furry in its mouth. The largest grey one was close behind. They were still shocking to see, although it was Ned's wolf that was the most majestic; large enough for the Stark Lord to ride should he choose.

He turned away, back to Ned and smiled. "You mentioned a tour of the new towers?"

* * *

" _No!" his lady wife screamed at him, blue eyes narrowed viciously as she glared at him. "I refuse! The trip would be hazardous to my little boy's health!"_

 _Gritting his teeth, Jon held back the sigh that threatened to escape and pushed away his building headache. "The Maester, both of which I took him to, assured me he would be healthy enough for the trip, " he repeated once again._

" _He is too young!"_

" _Women travel often with much younger children," he pointed out, hand gripping the arms of his chair tightly. "Your own sister traveled with her first born from Riverrun to Winterfell when he was but moons old. Our son is five_ name days _old. We will be traveling through your homeland much of the way and it will give him a chance to meet his Aunt, Uncles, and cousins. He has not met any of your family but Ser Brynden and that was two years ago. I doubt Robert even remembers him. It would be good for him and for us to spend some time with family."_

 _Before she could gather her voice to speak further, Jon stood, moving from his chair to stand before her. "You have talked of seeing your sister in the past and yet now that I have finally arranged for us to not only see Lady Stark but her children and members of your own family you balk!"_

 _She glared at him, eyes frozen daggers attempting to pierce his very soul. The fury in her gaze astonished him somewhat. While he was quite aware that she was not exactly happy with her situation in life—being_ his _lady wife—the stark clarity of what he was seeing shocked him_

 _No matter what she thought of him, he was bound by honor to do what was best for their son and for the realm. He needed information and to speak with Lord Stark face to face and he wished for his son to spend time with family. As ill as little Robert was it would be good for him to make allies of his cousins for support in the future._

" _We will be stopping at various keeps along the way," Jon said, schooling his face into a blank mask. "Robert will have access to multiple Maesters, including Maester Haburt who is riding to meet us from the Vale to assist in our son's care." Jon moved to walk around his wife, but paused before he passed her, eyes locking with hers. "This is not up for debate. We_ will _be going."_

 _As strode away he heard a crash of glass and other objects as Lysa swept the objects from the desk to the floor and screeched her rage._

* * *

Before traveling north, Jon Arryn had offered to travel along with the Tullys—Lord Edmure and Ser Brynden were to be traveling north while Lord Hoster, whose health had recently started to decline, had been forced to remain at Riverrun—but the offer had been gently refused. Lord Edmure had stated in a letter he planned to visit the lords and ladies of the Riverlands along the route to Moat Cailin. The two had arrived five days after the Arryn's party and were greeted in much the same way only this time the Arryns were standing beside the Starks and Ned's bastard son was nowhere to be seen.

There was, of course, a feast to welcome Edmure and the Blackfish that night and as Jon scanned the hall he noticed that the boy was also absent, seemingly disappeared into thin air with the arrival of Lady Catelyn's brother and uncle. The other Stark children had noticed and seemed a bit disconcerted about him not partaking alongside them as he had at the feast celebrating House Arryn's arrival.

A couple hours into the feast, Jon took a short leave from the festivities needing to empty his bladder. He also hoped to alleviated the headache that had begun to creep at the base of his skull due to the loud noise in the hall. As the keep was new, and in large part temporary until a fully stone keep could be constructed in the coming years, the great hall was relatively small, which made noise loud and the air thick from the dozens of bodies within it.

Deciding to clear his head after relieving himself, he took a long walk around the perimeter of the courtyard. There were a few other people milling about, including one of the Stark guards leaning against a wall about ten paces from where Jon Snow was tossing a large stick through the air for two of the direwolves—his own pure white one and the largest of his sibling wolves, which Jon thought was Robb's—to run after.

Jon watched the boy for a moment and then walked over, seeing his shoulders tense when Jon came close to him. The guard shifted his feet and hands slightly, but remained leaning against the wall.

He watched for a couple minutes, just until the muscles in his namesake's shoulders relaxed some. "When my lady wife told me Lady Catelyn wrote to her of your father and all his children having real direwolves for _pets_ , I could scarcely believe it," he said as wolves circled around Snow's legs after returning the branch.

"They aren't pets, my lord," Snow said a long moment later, after he tossed the branch as far as he could across the yard. He glanced over at Jon as the wolves skittered across the dirt.

Tilting his head, Jon watched as the two tussled over the branch. "Yours is the white one?"

"Ghost," Snow confirmed. "The other is Grey Wind . . . he's Robb's." The wolves returned then, Grey Wind having won the branch this round as he was the one to drop it at Snow's feet. They were both panting a bit, tongues lolling out of their mouths.

"Have you been exercising them the entire feast?" he asked, watching as the wolves chased the branch again.

The boy shrugged. "I ate in the kitchens earlier," he replied as Ghost began a loping jog back with the branch in his mouth. He kneeled to meet the direwolf, taking a moment to run his fingers through the fur over the wolf's eyes and behind his ears. "The Tullys have never been . . . fond of me."

"Lady Catelyn seems relatively amicable toward you," Jon said, watching as the boy ducked his head before sliding a grey eyed glance his way from behind dark curls.

"Lady Ca—Stark is kind to me," he confirmed softly.

Tilting his head in agreement, Jon kept his eyes on the boy. Lady Catelyn had a remarkably good attitude towards her husband's bastard considering all reports he'd previously had regarding her thoughts on him. It was still troubling to him how quickly her mind seemed to have shifted.

"Much nicer than most in her situation north of Dorne." Jon watched as the boy's shoulders shifted and tensed. "It seems to be a recent change."

The boy said nothing, just tossed the stick for the wolves again.

"When you were younger, I sent several offers to Lord Stark to foster you in the Vale."

Snow started at that, glancing over at Jon in surprise. "You did?" he asked, brow knitting together.

"I did," Jon confirmed, nodding. "I believed that if you were anything like Ned you would do well in the Vale," he paused for a moment, eyes running over the boy's features, "and I thought it might alleviate tensions in Winterfell between him and Lady Catelyn. Fostering would have opened up additional options for you, perhaps allowing you to become a knight as some bastards have." He glanced down at the direwolves as they came to a stop at Snow's side. The white one was staring at him with bright red eyes. "Your father declined my offers."

"He wished for me to grow up in Winterfell," Snow said after a moment, his right-hand tangling in Grey Wind's fur. "To know my siblings."

"He did," Jon acknowledged watching the boy's interaction with the wolves. He had not seen anyone else come even close to touching Robb's wolf except the Stark heir himself. "And you did. Your siblings are very attached to you."

The boy's left hand flexed and Ghost stepped forward, angling himself between the two men, his neck dropping slightly and shoulders hunching as he stared at Jon.

"I would never hurt them," Snow said, his voice low, but even, while his face schooled into a blank mask.

"I didn't say you would."

The boy looked away again, staring down at Grey Wind who glanced up at him. "I know what they say in the south about bastards. How we are viewed." Snow glanced up again, meeting Jon's gaze. "I don't lust after my sibling's birthright. I love them. They are my family and Winterfell is my home, but Robb _will_ be its lord. I will not." His chin lifted, curly hair falling away from his face. "I would die to protect him—any of them. I don't want what is theirs." There was a pause in his speech before he drew in a deep breath. "You could offer me anything. Gold. Titles. A throne. I wouldn't usurp them."

"I am sorry if you took offense at my words," Jon said, stepping forward his hand raised as if to settle it on the boy's shoulder. Ghost paced forward another step to keep them separate. "I only wished to point out how cared for you are. I see it in your siblings and in Lord Stark's eyes when they see you." Even Lady Catelyn seemed to hold some level of affection for the boy.

Snow glanced away from him then, taking a step back as his eyes locked on a nearby figure. Jon realized that the Stark guard had stepped a pace from the wall and was watching the exchange, eyes mostly focused on him rather than the boy although the guard's eyes swept the surroundings for any threats.

"Is there anything I may help you with, Lord Arryn?" Snow said a moment later as Ghost circled to return to his side. "I believe the kitchen staff have prepared food for the direwolves that I should retrieve as my siblings and Lord Stark are busy."

A rather diplomatic request to be dismissed from the conversation. "Not tonight," Jon said, dropping his arm to his side. "Tomorrow, however, if your brother and yourself are willing I would like to see the two of you spar on the training ground. I have heard from Ned and others that both of you are quite skilled with the sword."

"I will speak with him of it," Snow answered, stepping away to pick up the discarded branch. Grey Wind took Ghost's spot in standing between the two humans. "I am sure he would be willing."

"In the morning, then," Jon Arryn said and watched as the young man nodded and turned away, quietly making his way across the courtyard with the two direwolves at his heels.

The guard eyed Jon for a moment before stepping from the wall and bowing slightly to Jon. "My lord," he murmured and then followed in boy's wake.

Jon Arryn watched after them for a long moment, lips pressed together and eyes narrowed in thought. It wasn't often that a bastard child was guarded as avidly as the heir and other trueborn children, but Ned had one of his best guards following at the boy's ankles. It was something he'd noticed, the larger presence of Stark guards than most households, even when visiting other Lords, would have. At least one guard was always a short distance from the children and his lady wife and all of them highly skilled from what Jon had seen in the practice field in the early mornings and when they took turns teaching the eldest boys or testing their skills against each other.

Something had scared Ned, something that had him worried for his family's safety—every member's safety whether they carried the Stark name or not. And something had convinced his foster son that Jon Snow needed the protection of the Stark name.

Breathing out a deep breath, Jon turned and headed back towards the dining hall to return to the festivities; he was getting too old to deal with the drama of politics, but needs must. His eyes took in the various men and women he passed, servants and guards milling around and going about their duties. A young couple, two servants, giggled in the shadows hands tangled together as they slunk through the dark.

"Wan see Winta," a sleepy, childish voice murmured a short distance away and Jon looked over to see Sansa Stark carrying Rickon Stark in her arms. His head was tucked under her chin, their red hair blending together in the dim light. "An' Shaggy."

"Shhh," the girl murmured, pausing a step to glance around. "Shaggydog is in the kennel, we'll see him in the morning."

"Winta?" The young boy pulled back to look at his older sister, hand letting go of her shirt to come up and rub at his eyes.

"Lady Sansa . . ." a hushed voice of a nearby guard said with a hint of warning, stepping closer.

"Winter is in Winterfell," Sansa said quickly, voice barely carrying to where Jon was standing just out of sight. "Remember the rules?"

"Wan see Winta," Rickon said again, chin wobbling. "'M cold."

Sansa adjusted her grip on him, pulled his furs tighter around him, and shushed him again. "How about we go see the direwolves? I think Jon is with them." She moved off then walking quickly towards the kennels. "You wanted to see Shaggydog, right?"

Jon watched them go, realizing the guard had seen him as he was eyed for a long moment before the man trailed after the two children.

The northerners were wary of southerners, yes, after all their traditions were very different from those of the South. But the Vale, and the Riverlands, of which all the visitors—bar a few servants—that were present belonged to were staunch allies of the North. Of course, there was the large number of workers camped beyond the ramparts, a group less able to be vetted properly for loyalty and whose behavior to young maidens could be less than appropriate.

He rubbed at the bridge of his nose, unhappy at the thoughts that were niggling at the back of his mind both regarding the Norths seeming interest in fortification and protection and what he had seen of Jon Snow during the past five days. The list of topics he needed to discuss with Ned was growing by the hour along with his headache.

The trip had seemed like a good idea at the time, but he was starting to think the only good thing to come of it might be his lady wife's growing anxiety and paranoia seemed to be lessening somewhat around her family. Perhaps he might even be able to coax her into an actual conversation at some point on this trip.

* * *

 _"My lord, I have spent over half a decade teaching the boy my trade," Tobho Mott said, staring at him with a bit of anger underneath the politeness of protocol. "He is talented and hardworking and still has much to learn, but has the ability and intelligence to do so. I see no reason why he should be shipped off to the Night's Watch."_

 _"When I paid you to take him as your apprentice," Jon Arryn replied, sighing, "I hoped he would be able to make a life and live happily as a blacksmith here, where he was born." He stared over the man's shoulder to the back of the shop where the young man was working away. The noise in the smithy hid the sound of their hushed voices as they bent over a breastplate. "I hoped that he would be safe, but I find that I can no longer guarantee it. I fear someone will recognize him soon."_

 _Tobho glanced over at the boy and sighed. "When you first brought him to me I believed him the bastard of a lord," he shook his head and turned back to Jon, "but at his age I can see clearly his father in him and I have not had much of a chance to look upon his grace. I have perhaps laid eyes on the man but a handful of times."_

 _Jon nodded in agreement. Gendry looked exactly as his father had at his age. So very alike all of Robert's other bastards and so very different from his supposed trueborn children._

 _"But the Night's Watch?" Tobho asked. "It would be such a waste of talent for him to be sent to the Wall."_

 _"They need the men and asked for skilled workers. King Robert has decided to humor their request and is insisting on a number of workers in trades be sent along with the usual crowd," Jon answered. "It is a good excuse to get him from the city along with a group of fellow workers. The boy may not be happy about it, but it will keep him alive at least."_

 _"And yet you ask me to lie and say that he would not be able to work to the level of skill I need in my shop." Tobho's hand clenched into a fist on the table and he shook his head. "Fine, I will do this, but you must find me a replacement. Or two, if they are not skilled enough to fill young Gendry's shoes."_

* * *

Jon stared at Ned, trying to form thoughts around what his foster son was saying. "You wish to foster Robert's bastards?"

"Provide those in need with a safe haven, yes," Ned affirmed as he leaned back in his chair. "Such as the two boys that you brought with you. They are both hard workers, spending their days assisting in the construction. They volunteered without being asked, from what I hear. They won't necessarily be fostered in Winterfell, but I can find safe harbor for any in need among my bannermen at the very least. If any begin to cause trouble for my family or King Robert's, then they can always be sent along to the wall." He tapped a finger against the rim of his glass. "You must admit they are rather young to join the watch. The younger boy is, what, eight name days old?"

"Not quite." Jon nodded. "They are quite willing workers. Young Gendry was apprenticed to Tobho Mott in King's Landing and the man had nothing but good words to say about his hard work and skills to everyone but the boy of course. And what of his daughters?"

"Are there any that you worry for?"

He glanced away, looking towards the fire. They were in a small, out of the way, room that Ned had claimed for his solar during his stay in Moat Cailin. It was the perfect spot for a private chat and much quieter than other places as the window opened to look opposite of where most of the construction was taking place.

Taking a sip of ale from the glass in his hand, Jon took the moment to gather his thoughts. Robert's bastards were numerous and much of the time he doubted that even he and his careful accounting of the King's whores and paramours knew of all the man's children. Most were boys, easily identifiable upon birth for their strong Baratheon coloring and resemblance to the King as they grew older. The girls were the ones whose looks most often departed from their father's. Though there was only one of the female bastards whose looks made him doubt her parentage.

Mya, he knew, would be safe in the Vale at least and Jon had already been approached a few times with marriage offers for the young lady. The King had yet to approve of any, having the final say although she was under the auspices of House Arryn for the most part. King Robert had only brought her marriage up once, when he pondered legitimizing her, but Jon had managed to talk him out of both legitimizing her and forcing his daughter to leave her home in the Vale—at least for now.

Several of the King's bastards, like with Mya, Jon had personally seen to arranging better lives for. Gendry, for example, had been born to waitress in a tavern in flea bottom and upon her death he had ensured the boy survived and was fed until an age he, with Lord Varys' assistance—the man had been the one who brought the boys existence to his attention—could arrange an apprenticeship for him. If things had gone as planned Gendry would have learned under Tobho Mott until he knew enough to become a master blacksmith and perhaps open his own shop. He would have been able to make a name for himself and perhaps find a wife and have children . . . but then things changed.

Several of Robert's bastards had disappeared within the last year, younger boys and girls of more well known, but not noble, women that the King had bedded. It had worried him enough to convince Tobho Mott to relinquish the boy to him to take him north with his party and the men he was bringing to join the Watch.

Ned approaching him about apprenticing the boy to Winterfell's blacksmith, Mikken, and finding a place for the other boy among Winterfell or another northern household had shocked him. He turned towards the other man, finding him watching with a solemn look on his face.

It sent a chill down his spine and he felt the familiar twinge of a headache begin. Since arriving at Moat Cailin there were times it seemed as if Ned knew more of the politics of the South then he rightly should.

"I worry for them all," Jon said finally, "but," he sighed, "the girls I do not believe to be in much danger."

"And the boys?" Ned asked, voice a deep rumble.

"Some have gone missing," he admitted, "as well as any close family members that were still in their lives." Sighing he glanced towards the open window. "When you mentioned the Watch is in need of skilled labor I saw it as a chance to remove Gendry and his younger brother from King's Landing and, hopefully, harm's way. Gendry's a good lad and a hard worker, diligent."

"Which is why I'm offering him a place, besides his obvious parentage." Ned stood and paced towards the desk nearby to retrieve another stein of alcohol. They already finished off the last. "He has been aiding in the construction during his time here and I have heard naught but good things about him and his skills." He paused, facing away from Jon. "Do you know why they may be disappearing?"

"I have a theory," Jon said, watching his former charge. "One I wish would be wrong, but is seeming to be more and more like the truth."

Ned said nothing has he checked a couple of containers and their contents. He said nothing, but his silence often said more than his words.

"Often, I think if I were to speak my thoughts aloud, it would make them true. I'm not sure what I will do if they are." Jon shifted, turning to look back at Ned before dropping his gaze to his cup.

"I have heard," Ned started and then paused as he poured a glass of alcohol, still facing away from Jon, "that the princes and princess are the spitting image of their mother."

Jon stilled, hand grasping his cup tighter. "They are."

"Not such an uncommon thing," Ned said as he turned, offering the stein to Jon who waved it away for the moment. "My own children take after their mother, for the most part." He moved to return to his seat. "But their Stark blood can readily be seen beneath their Tully coloring by most anyone."

"What have you heard?" Jon asked, voice devoid of any emotion. For Ned to have heard what Jon had only in the past half year started to suspect . . . He stared hard at his friend. "Be straight with me. Do not play with words, politics have never been your strong suit, Ned."

Ned inclined his head in acknowledgement. "Rumors that the royal children are pure lion with not a single drop of stag blood within them."

He schooled his features before raising an eyebrow. "As you said: they take after their mother."

Lips quirking slightly at the edge, Ned shook his head. "I've heard that they may take after their _father_ just as much as they do their mother." He met Jon's gaze fully. "That Gendry and Mya Stone are not their half siblings at all."

"Such speech would be treason," Jon said, voice tight. By the Seven . . . where had Ned heard this up in Winterfell? If he was aware of this, when the North notoriously received news and court gossip long after the other kingdoms, what did the other high lords know or suspect? He suspected Varys knew, but thought the Master of Whispers was keeping the truth quiet for the good of the realm. If there was one thing he could trust was that the man thought of the realm before all else. It was what had kept him alive after the fall of King Aerys.

"It would," Ned acknowledged, "but is it the truth? My sources say it is . . ." he pressed his lips together, ". . . and I am inclined to believe them."

Jon sat his glass down and stared at his hands for a long moment before he buried his head in his hands. Perhaps his age was beginning to catch up with him; there were few people in his life he felt he could truly trust. He had tried so hard in the last fourteen years to hold the realm together and support Robert's reign. At every turn the royal family—every member except perhaps little Tommen and Myrcella—seemed to be wanting to tear the delicate balance of power apart. Even his lady wife, a woman who was supposed to be his stalwart companion, was fraying his nerves constantly.

"Jon?" Ned asked, moving closer and setting his own glass aside.

" _By the Seven_ , I wish it weren't so, but I think it is." Jon dropped his hands and squared his shoulders. " _All_ but one of his bastards have his exact coloring and I cannot confirm that the one that doesn't is actually his. They are all black of hair with the Baratheon looks just as all others of the Baratheon line have been. By all reports the Baratheon coloring has overrode the looks of all other houses they have married into. Even when marrying into the Targaryens and one would think as a bastard line of that house marrying into it might allow for the occasional silver haired babe or violet eyes to come from the coupling, but it hasn't." He shook his head. "Perhaps a few things could be explained away, but I, and others, have questions on the interactions of the Queen and her brother—the Kingslayer—that raise doubts." He couldn't help but let out a dark, bark of a laugh. "And I cannot account for the timing of Prince Tommen's birth, by all rights he should have been _early_ but the midwife and Maester both claimed he was of normal size, if not bigger, for a newborn babe."

Healthy and robust and arguably bigger than his elder brother had been when he should have been, by all accounts, born near two moons early. It was one of the facts that had niggled at the back of Jon's mind until finally too many coincidences existed for him to ignore. He let out another harsh, humorless laugh. "The Red Keep is full of servants and watchful eyes loyal first to the Queen's family. It's a Lion's den and Robert is a Stag dancing among a pride that is growing hungrier and hungrier. He's oblivious to it all. I feel like I'm watching a volcano near ready to blow and the people settled beneath it are completely oblivious."

"Have you spoken with anyone at all?" Ned asked.

"Stannis," Jon said, meeting Ned's eyes again. "It was he who first raised my concern. A bastard within his auspices went missing and he was approached by the boy's aunt to see if perhaps arrangements had been made quietly for the boy as he'd recently turned of age to apprentice. Both his mother and the child had disappeared."

"And none had been made."

"None had been made," Jon confirmed. "The woman had been approached by several men in the days before her disappearance to take the boy off her hands for training. She declined them all. Stannis believes they were Lannister men and my sources have confirmed the likelihood of it."

"And Stannis came to you instead of Robert?"

"Do you think Robert would have handled this with the care needed?" Jon sighed as Ned shook his head. Robert would likely have demanded a manhunt and found _someone_ to blame whether he found the right person or not. More than likely he would be led by those that caused the disappearance to a convenient suspect that had nothing to do with the child's death. "He lacks many qualities that some would say are required of a ruler. He is more apt to throw accusations and demand someone's head without investigating the veracity of the accused's guilt."

He couldn't help but envision what would happen if Jon brought his thoughts of Joffrey and the other children's true parentage before the King. Of what Robert would do to Queen Cersei without hesitation—of what he would likely do to the children no matter their innocence in the matter.

Ned was quiet for a moment. "Whether Robert may react badly or not," he paused for a second, "I would caution against approaching any of the Lannisters with our theory before him and before King's Landing is sufficiently fortified with non-Lannister forces. I do not think that any Lion, from the Queen to Lord Tywin, would take kindly to such words."

Jon had to agree with the assessment. "I must tread very carefully, perhaps arrange for the children to visit family in Storms End or on Dragonstone."

Nodding, Ned didn't bother saying anything in response. There was only so much the Warden of the North could do to affect the politics of King's Landing and Jon knew that his former charge had no interest in going south. He was starting to understand why Lord Stark had begun to refortify Moat Cailin and it wasn't just so that one of his younger sons might one day have a hold of their own. If the Iron Throne's line of succession was in question and Robert died . . . war would divide the kingdoms and no matter who House Stark supported the North would need to protect their own if a harsh winter was on its way.

He picked up his glass again as Ned retrieved the stein and offered it to him. After refilling it to the brim, Jon took a long pull of the northern ale, the slight burn tickling his throat. He stared at the liquid as it calmed within the glass. Southern politics wasn't the only subject he needed to speak with Ned about.

"I spoke with your son, Jon, the other day. The evening of the feast."

"He told me," Ned said. "He was worried he may have offended you."

"He didn't." He shook his head, a grin pulling at the edges of his lips. "I wanted to get an idea of his character."

"And did you?"

Jon looked over at Ned and nodded. "I believe I did. He is very much like you. You have raised him well."

"I raised him just as I did my other children," Ned acknowledged, glancing towards the hearth. "You aren't the first to tell me how very much like me he is."

"The Stark blood is very strong in him," Jon continued, "and from what I've seen he is a credit to your House." He retrieved the letter from where he had hidden it that morning; the one he had been carrying since leaving King's Landing. "Robert had me draw these papers up and signed it immediately upon receipt of your request." He tilted the letter so Ned could see the royal seal keeping it tightly shut. "I do believe that Jon Snow is more than worthy of the Stark name and no threat to your other children." He paused waiting for Ned to meet his eyes again. "But I would ask one question of you before I hand this over."

He watched as Ned steeled himself, emotions disappearing behind the other man's solemn northern features.

"Your question?" Ned prompted after a moment, his voice rough.

"Which of your siblings does he truly belong to? Brandon," Jon leaned forward, "or Lyanna?"

* * *

 _The letter the courier had just delivered from Ned was crumpled in Robert's fist as the man let out a boisterous laugh. He had been laughing for several minutes now, the small council staring as they waited for their new King to calm._

 _Lord Eddard Stark had refused to come to the coronation, that much was obvious as it was set to take place the next day and only a few northern lords and ladies has arrived, along with the courier. It was understandable why Lord Stark's lady wife, having born a son less than six moons ago, would not have come, but Lord Stark himself, the Warden of the North, had not come either._

 _"Your grace," Jon ventured a moment later and Robert just shook his head and shoved the letter towards him. The crumpled parchment slid across the table and he barely caught it before it fell to the floor._

 _Opening it he tried to smooth the crumpled creases as his eyes scanned the contents. The further he got the higher his eyebrows rose. Confusion and disbelief forefront at his mind._

 _"The honorable Eddard Stark named his_ bastard _for you Jon!" Robert managed to state, a grin wide on his face. "To think he looked down on my habits and now he has a bastard of his own! Younger than his trueborn heir!" He continued laughing as Jon reread the letter. "The hypocrite!" Robert was still a tad annoyed at his brother in spirit for his words regarding the death of young Rhaenys and little Aegon._

 _The letter was very succinct, essentially advising that Lord Stark was unable to attend the coronation as he was traveling to Winterfell with his bastard whose mother had left him in his care and he wished to see his firstborn. Apparently, Lord Benjen had also sent word that his elder brother was needed in the North to settle some disputes brought on in the wake of the war._

 _Jon couldn't help but think that something was off about the letter, especially when it came to Ned having a bastard. He knew both of his foster sons well having raised them and helped shape them. Robert he had come to expect to have bastards, he was constantly in the presence of whores and beautiful women when not on the battlefield or being forced to attend his duties, but Ned was a different story. He could not envision the young man having partaken outside of his marriage bed, especially bare moons from swearing vows with Lady Catelyn._

 _That wasn't his way._

 _No, Jon was almost positive that this child was not Ned's. That left two other siblings whose child it could be as Benjen had not left the North, Brandon and Lyanna. Brandon's reputation was quite known and it wouldn't surprise Jon if the man had left a bastard or two behind and if Ned was coming from Dorne . . . it was rumored that one of the wolves of the North had lain with Ashara Dayne. Jon doubted it had been Ned. Then again, he had also heard that Lyanna had been taken to Dorne as well. Robert had raved upon it after receiving news of Lyanna's passing just a sennight earlier._

 _He stared at the paper in front of him, eyes unseeing._

 _It didn't matter either way. Lord Stark was claiming the child as his own, which Jon could only hope that meant that no matter his true parentage he looked like a Stark. Either Ned was trying to protect his late brother's honor or he was saving the life of a nephew that Robert would surely demand the death of. Should it be the latter, Ned would surely keep the child from ever raising arms against his friend. He may never even tell the boy the truth of his birth._

 _A few well-placed rumors could only help, no matter who the child's true father was._

* * *

"Do not lie to me," Jon said leaning forward, eyes narrowed. "I practically raised you. I knew you well back then. For all that Jon Snow looks very much like you, I know your honor would not have allowed you to lay with a woman, especially not with the memory of your marriage so soon before you claim his conception to have taken place." He met Ned's gaze fully as the younger man drew his shoulders back. "I have doubted his parentage since I first received word of his birth."

"And you said nothing?" Ned asked quietly, brow furrowing slightly.

"You claimed him as yours," Jon replied simply, gesturing with his hand. "If he was Brandon's then it would have been to spare your lady wife and the North a possible inheritance dispute. If he were Lyanna's then it would be to spare the child's life. You weren't the only one to disagree with how the Targaryen children were treated." He sighed and leaned back. "I saw no need to intervene."

"And yet you ask now," Ned stated, his face settling back into a blank, icy mask.

"You asked for his legitimization."

"He isn't a threat."

"I know," Jon said, lips quirking into a smile. "Having met and spoken with the boy I can see he cares for his family and not power. Although I have little doubt should his family be threatened that he might use whatever power he can gather to protect them."

Ned nodded his agreement with that assessment.

"And so, I ask: whose son is he?"

Ned stared past him, over his shoulder toward the window. "What will you do once you know?" he asked finally, eyes sliding over to watch Jon warily.

"I will hand you this letter," he raised it slightly, "and we will turn our conversation to other topics. Perhaps regarding my son and the possibility of fostering him."

"He's young yet," Ned said, eyebrow raising.

"And he is spoiled and babied by his mother," Jon said and pointedly looked at his foster son.

Ned sighed and ran a hand over his face. After several long moments, he spoke, "Lyanna. He's Lyanna's."

Jon nodded slightly to himself. As he had thought. Beneath the Stark coloring and looks, if one were looking carefully, and knew what to look for, the Targaryen ancestry of the boy could be discerned. Jon, as Lord of the Vale, had spent time with the Targaryen's and knew what to look for. He had also been looking. The features were faint enough and similar enough to the Daynes that one could also claim that he was the son of Ashara Dayne as well. A rumor that had spread far and wide enough that, along with the tales of Lord Stark's honor, it had clouded the minds of others that might have looked at the boy twice.

"Does Catelyn know?"

The muscle along Ned's jaw flexed as he nodded sharply. "Yes, I told her recently."

 _Ah,_ Jon thought, _no wonder the change of heart_.

Jon 'hmm'ed and thought for a moment, weighing which question to ask next as he held the letter for Ned to take.

"Does the boy know?" he asked as Ned took it, staring at the seal for a long moment before standing to place it securely in a lock box.

"Aye," he said as he placed the letter away, "he found out."

"Found out?"

Ned pressed his lips together and glanced at the fire. "He doesn't burn."

It took a moment for the meaning to register for Jon and it made him wonder what happened that the boy would have found out such a thing. Was it something small like a candle that should have burned him or something much worse? What injury might the boy have born if he hadn't inherited that trait? As Ned was remaining silent on the subject, he decided not to press. The dark look on the other man's face told of a story he did not wish to share.

Jon shifted to fill his cup again, knowing they still had much to talk about. The North had been making waves, small as they were yet in the South the ripples were slowly growing larger. "Now I do not believe the North is rallying behind a dragon-wolf to take the Iron Throne," he paused to take a sip of the harsh ale, "but you are rallying for something." Jon swirled his cup for a moment, watching as Ned stilled, shoulders tensing. "Perhaps you might tell me what it is that has you building men and fortifying your coasts, Moat Cailin, _and the Night's Watch_. You surely aren't going to fight Ice Dragons like the last rumor I heard suggested, are you?"

Ned blinked at him, staring for a moment before barking out a laugh at that, shoulders shaking as he continued to laugh.

Unable to help a small grin himself, Jon watched as some of the stress and tension seemed to leave his foster son's body. It was good to see him laugh, he'd always been so serious and solemn and the years only seemed to have exaggerated those behaviors. He could wait a few minutes for the younger man to calm before steering the conversation back to the serious issues at hand. Perhaps they both needed some light hearted moments to offset the serious.


	7. Interlude: Robb I

_Wooden walls were thinner than stone, though the insulation the builders added in many ways helped muffle sound whereas stone often carried it. The walls of Winterfell were thick and tapestries hung throughout—especially in the family wing and where important meetings were held—helping to keep the castle warm and muffle the sound. In the older parts of the castle the thicker walls held the secrets that Winterfell's Master builders studied for generations to keep the castle warm. A trade that was seldom heralded outside of certain keeps in the North as, unlike Winterfell, most castles were not built upon hot springs._

 _When Robb was younger he and his siblings used to listen to the tales Old Nan would spin and ponder if there truly was a dragon hidden deep, deep in the crypts. Perhaps in the lowest levels where carefully shaped, carved, and reinforced stone walls gave way to rough rock caverns and steam filled the air with mist and the musty scent of rotten eggs. After all, she would say, Prince Jacaerys Velaryon's dragon, Vermax, was said to have worked his way into the crypts, deep and into the lower levels, and laid eggs. Some even said he was behind the collapse of some._

 _Robb and Jon had tried to explore once, when they were years younger, to find the hidden eggs as perhaps several generations of young Starks before them had, but they never made it very deep. Theon, perhaps wrought with jealousy of Jon being allowed to follow the Stark heir where he could not, had told on them. It had resulted in their father dragging them out and lecturing them on the dangers of the crypts._

 _If only they had known, they need only go to Aunt Lyanna's crypt to find a dragon egg. Winter wasn't one of Vermax's or so they assumed, for there was no way to know which dragon had laid her egg, but she had been hidden there all the same._

 _Robb missed the warmth of Winterfell's walls. He missed the rough stone and the familiarity of the aging tapestries that lined the walls. They would only be in Moat Cailin for another sennight, but he almost wished word would arrive by raven or rider advising that Benjen needed to leave for Castle Black so that he, and Jon, could ride for home._

 _His brother was growing agitated, little by little, he could tell, at being separated from Winter. Robb couldn't help but imagine how he would feel if Grey Wind was made to stay so far away for over a moon. The other night he had sat by Jon's side as his brother warged into her, keeping her from flying south as she had felt his agitation following a run in with Robb's aunt._

 _Grey Wind whined at his side as they walked through the hall. It was long and rooms lined each side. Most in this section were similar in size and built as chambers for visiting highborns. Robb could feel his direwolf's hunger gnawing at his own stomach and the barely controlled energy zipping through his body. Grey Wind wanted a hunt, but now was not the time. Later, Jon and he were planning to practice warging. Then they would run with their companions into the nearby landscape to explore and track whatever prey animal they could find._

 _Robb had gotten better recently, with the help of his wildling friend, Breck, who had stayed in Winterfell when the others of his party had gone with a group of loyal Stark men to survey the locations his lord father had in mind for some Free Folk clans to settle south of the New Gift, including the Giants. Breck was patient and a better teacher, arguably, than Jon in warging at least. Much to his mother's concern, Breck spent time with each of the Stark children—save Rickon—to help them learn to control their gifts._

 _"Are you mad?!" his Aunt Lysa's voice caused him to wince and freeze in his tracks. It carried easily through the hall from a room down the way. His Uncle Edmure's room, if he remembered correctly. "How could you allow such a thing?"_

 _"How could I not?" his mother responded, sounding tired as if she'd already been arguing her point for some time._

 _He froze as they spoke before his curiosity overrode everything else. Glancing to the side, Robb saw an open doorway just to his right. Motioning for Grey Wind to stay, he stuck his head inside and, after seeing that the room was empty and no personal effects were present, he slipped inside and shut the door behind him. He pressed his back against it and slid down the door until he was sat upon the stained wood of the flooring._

 _He shut his eyes and reached inside himself for the vibrant connection he shared with his companion, his other half. It took a long moment, but months of practice had made it easier._

* * *

 _ **The world shifted and suddenly his vision was different. The world was a bit less colorful and bright, or perhaps color just didn't matter as much as the scent of things. His two-legged mother was still speaking, but it took a moment for him to focus on her words. It took a few long moments for him to force his attention away from the sudden explosion of scents and plod forward in the corridor.**_

 _ **His ears were sharper and he was quieter, able to draw in closer to the voices. A door was slightly ajar, the edges of it not shut and perhaps not quite shaped right for it to close properly. He could see familiar people through the small crack. Robb finally was able to catch up on the conversation following a particularly shrill statement from his aunt as it drew his attention to their speech.**_

 _" **I hardly know the boy and even I can see he would sooner slit his own throat," his great uncle, Brynden said, voice a low grumble, "than turn against Robb or the other boys, Lysa."**_

 _" **This is a slight against Cat, against our House!" Lysa hissed, he could see her clearer than any other. Her dull, red-brown hair limp in forced curls. She was glaring at each of them in turn, her mouth pressed tight forming deep wrinkles in her skin and what once may have been pretty dimples now made her look worn. She was younger than his mother yet looked much older. "You cannot seriously be considering allowing this atrocity to go forth!"**_

 _" **Lysa," his Uncle Edmure spoke then, "while I may not agree that this is right, perhaps you are over reacting? Lord Stark is rebuilding several old holds, including Moat Cailin, and each will need a new lord. Jon appears to care deeply for his siblings and having him as a loyal bannerman holding Queenscrown during this . . . migration of wildlings into the North," he said that bit as if he were simultaneously disgusted and incredulous, "or even Moat Cailin would be a boon. Especially if Jon's heir were to marry one of his brother's children in the future."**_

 _" **Why are you so trusting of a bastard's word?" his aunt said then, voice a hiss. "You know what they are. It's in their nature to—"**_

 _" **Lysa!" his mother barked, stepping forward into Grey Wind's line of sight. "I would hope that someone who had lived for years in the snake pit that is King's Landing would understand that not all men are made of the same mold. To lump each man of a kind together is true madness! Would you tout King Robert as being borne from the same mold as the Mad King? Is our Father the same as Lord Tyrell, Tywin, or Stannis? Not all bastards," she still said the word as if it was distasteful to even form the syllables in her mouth, "are alike either. Some may turn on their siblings, yes, but others stood stalwart, staunchly supporting their trueborn siblings even if it meant their death. Did you learn nothing during your history lessons?" Robb was not unaware of the irony of the statement. It was an argument he had oft thought of using against**_ **her** ** _,_** _ **though he'd always held his tongue.**_

 _ **Grey Wind and he moved together without thought, pushing the door open and plodding into the room, startling its occupants.**_

 _ **His mother pressed her lips together as she caught sight, eyes narrowing as she studied his form. Sauntering up to her, he pressed his muzzle into her hand and leaned against her leg. She sighed and tangled her hand in the fur at his nape. It was rare for Grey Wind to allow any to touch him other than Robb and Jon, but Grey Wind would make exceptions. He had never done so for his mother, though, Robb knew.**_

 _ **Their eyes met and she raised an eyebrow before glancing up as Uncle Brynden spoke.**_

 _" **I cannot say my brother will be happy about it," the blackfish murmured. He was sitting in a chair near the window, a cup in his hand, the base resting against his thigh. "Your father was incensed when he first heard of the boy's existence, from what I heard. It would be best if he never lays eyes on the boy."**_

 _ **His mother glanced at his great uncle and pressed her lips together before nodding sharply in agreement.**_

 _" **Madness," his aunt hissed, shaking her head, "utter madness. You're a fool, Cat, if you believe this will turn out well for you and your children." She turned on her heel and left the room, pulling the door shut with a slam behind her.**_

 _ **There was silence for a few minutes as they heard her heavy footfalls stalk down the hall, likely going off in search of her son.**_

 _" **By the Seven," his Uncle Edmure said after a while, breaking the silence, "was she always like this and I just missed it somehow?"**_

 _" **No, she has changed much since our youth," his mother ran her hand over his head, scratching lightly behind his ears. "I fear the years in Kings Landing have not been kind to her."**_

 _" **Not been kind?" Uncle Brynden snorted. "It seems to have robbed all her kindness away. I daresay, from what I have seen, she lacks heart in her interactions with her own son! I stumbled upon an argument between her and Maester Haburt yesterday as he caught her trying to administer some sort of snake oil remedy to her son! Lord Arryn was not pleased when I sent a servant to retrieve him."**_

 _" **Something has twisted within her," his mother said softly, "I worry for her and for little Robert."**_

 _" **Lord Arryn shared with me that he wishes to foster his son with House Stark, should your lord husband agree," Edmure said, moving to walk towards the window.**_

 _ **His mother nodded. "I heard." She sighed, tracing a dark grey spot over his eyes with a finger before continuing. "As much as I hate to take Lysa's son away from her, I do believe it would be in young Robert's best interest to be away from her . . . and King's Landing. For his health if nothing else."**_

 _" **Do you think . . ." his uncle trailed off as he looked back towards them. His mother glanced away and the Blackfish stared at his cup.**_

 _" **Perhaps," his great uncle said after a moment and the chugged the remainder of his drink. "I wish I could say it wasn't so, but the accounts given by the maester . . ." he glanced at Edmure. "I think it might be best if you took Lysa home to see her father or at least Riverrun for a time."**_

 _" **For how long?" his uncle asked, eyes widening and brow raising.**_

 _" **For long enough for Father to get a good look at what she has become," his mother said, voice dripping with sadness. The scent of the emotion caused him to bury his head into her skirts. She knelt then, wrapping her arms around his body. "I fear it may be best if Lord Arryn were to consider placing her aside. As much as I hate to think it, perhaps it may be best if she were to join the silent sisters."**_

 _" **Cat, you cannot be serious!"**_

 _ **Her eyes closed for a moment, chin dipping, before she ran her hands through his fur one more time and then stood. "I wish I were not." She looked down at him then, focusing on his eyes. "Off you go, I'm sure your brother will be looking for you." He met her narrowed eyes again before standing on all four paws and plodding to the door; she followed in order to open it for him.**_

 _ **As he slipped out she moved to shut the door, but kept it open for a moment, staring at him. He glanced back over his shoulder at her.**_

 _" **I trust that what we spoke of will be kept silent for the time being?" she asked, standing still. "It would be unkind to get the boy's hopes up if circumstances were to change."**_

 _ **Uncle Brynden snorted. "Of course, that was the first thing you asked of us when you dragged us in here earlier, was it not?"**_

 _ **The door shut behind him muffling his mother's response, but Robb didn't need to hear anymore.**_

* * *

 _What he had heard made him smile as he came back to himself, suddenly exhausted. He didn't even care that this meant he may not be able to run tonight as Grey Wind with Ghost and the other wolves._

 _They had been talking about Jon being legitimized as a Stark. No matter what Jon might have said, Robb was fully aware that being Stark in name had long been a dream of his brother's. No matter that he was actually a trueborn Targaryen, Robb had no doubt his brother still dreamed of bearing the Stark name._

 _Pushing himself up, using the door to support his weight as he readjusted to having only two legs, he pondered sharing the news for a moment and then dismissed it. His mother's words had clearly been meant for him as she'd somehow known that he has been sharing his direwolf's skin. He did agree with her, this was something that would better serve as being a surprise to his brother and Robb didn't want to get his hopes up if something changed between now and when his father planned to announce it._

 _When he felt strong enough he opened the door to find Grey Wind sitting calmly outside, waiting for him. He smiled down at his companion. Grey Wind's jaw dropped and lips drew back, tongue lolling out in an approximation of a grin as his tail swept across the floor. His guard, Wildem, stood behind the direwolf and across the hall, an eyebrow raised as he eyed Robb._

 _Robb smiled sheepishly at him. He had forgotten the man was there._

* * *

Inside Winterfell's warm stone walls, Robb was able to relax. Winterfell was different than anywhere else he had ever been, it had an aura that sunk into his bones and told him he was _home_. It was comforting, though at the moment he couldn't help but feel the emptiness as members of his family were not currently present.

Grey Wind stood, nails clicking against stone as he looked up at Robb. The last petitioner for the day had just left and the members of the household that had sat in on the day's ordeal were beginning to trail out, with the exception of his sworn sword, Wildem, standing behind him and Maester Luwin who sat to his left.

"Thank you Maester Luwin," Robb smiled as he stood, "I appreciate all of your assistance today. I'm not sure what I would do without you."

"You would do the right and honorable thing," the old maester said as he stood, hands disappearing into his long sleeves and he folded them in front of him, "just as your lord father would."

"Still," Robb continued as they made their way towards the doors, "your wisdom helped settle several disputes that I was at a loss on how to even begin to resolve."

"I only helped you find the right path," the maester smiled, reaching out to settle a hand on Robb's shoulder. "You made the decisions on your own."

And he had, as he had been making decisions for over a sennight now regarding Winterfell. Every word he spoke and every decision he made left his fingers quaking when he was alone, worrying over if he had made the right choices. His parents had left him in charge of Winterfell for the first time; Maester Luwin, Ser Rodrik and Vayon Poole left behind to advise him. Vayon was currently checking on the status of the harvest that had stalled much of the construction on the new wall as the men were drafted to bring in the crops as quickly as possible. Aside from him, Bran, Rickon, Theon, and his cousin Robert Arryn, whom everyone had taken to calling Robin in the past several moons, had stayed behind.

While unsurprised after hearing the conversation between his mother and her family, he had been a bit surprised by how different his cousin seemed now from when they had first met. It was a very good difference from what Jon told him; he'd spared an evening to tell Robb of the sickly, foolish, and easily manipulated young man Robin became in most lives.

The boy's new maester, Haburt, had come North with them as well, at least for the time being, to keep a steady eye on the boy's supposed fragile health. The northern air seemed to be good for him, along with meeting new faces. While Robin had cried a bit at his separation from his mother he had quickly gotten over it, being distracted by every new thing he saw on their trip to Winterfell. His reaction had been nothing like Lysa Arryn's wails as her brother and uncle had left with her to visit Lord Tully in Riverrun. From what Robb understood she would be staying there for quite some time.

Lord Arryn had left several days prior in order to speak privately with Robb's Grandfather before his wife arrived. He wondered if he'd also be gone from Riverrun before her arrival. Considering what Jon had told him, he supposed that would likely be a very good idea.

Robb was glad his cousin was here, his closeness in age with Bran had allowed the two boys to form a friendship that he hoped might someday be akin to what he had with Jon. Robin could near always be found running about with Bran, oft getting into trouble by following his cousins attempts to climb various buildings in Winterfell. Both of the younger boys were also beginning their training with small, wooden practice swords under Ser Rodrik and the boy's personal guard—a man highly trusted by Lord Arryn—a Ser Lenhard from the Vale.

Maester Luwin made his excuses after a few more moments of conversation as they exited the hall and hurried off to take care of other duties, passing Theon who was waiting a short distance away, eyes hard and lips pressed together.

Robb's relationship with the ironborn had once been better than now, but over the past few years the older boy had begun chaffing against the restrictions that had been placed upon him. Each year he petitioned to return home upon his nameday, which had only recently passed. As a man grown, Theon was longing more and more for the home he could scarce remember and he had also begun feeling the few restrictions Lord Stark had placed upon him. Since his mother's change in attitude towards Jon, along with much of the household's, his resentment of Robb's relationship with his brother had grown.

When Theon had found out the truth . . . his displeasure had become greater. Especially as now, like all the Starks, he had a guard that followed him everywhere. His guard, however, was not sworn to him but to House Stark. The guard that tailed Theon was there to mind him. Theon was unable to spend the time he used to at the brothel, either, though that perhaps had more to do with the brothel he used to frequent having shut down a couple years ago; his favorite whores had left Winter Town for the most part. The remaining whore house didn't appreciate Theon's attitude, though accepted his coin, and the owner was loyal to the Starks. He often complained that the girls weren't as pretty—Robb knew he meant exotic—as the girls he used to lay with.

"I have a letter I wish to send," Theon said, thrusting the pieces of parchment towards him. The muscle in his jaw jumped as glanced over Robb's shoulder towards a tapestry depicting Bran the builder.

Robb took it carefully, opening it to read over the words. He hated having to do this, but Theon wasn't blood family and he wasn't sworn to the Starks. He was, as his father had taken to reminding him time and time again, a hostage from an enemy house that could not fully be trusted no matter how much they may want to. The tales that Jon had to tell of Theon's actions—even when Jon tried to prevent the darker ones—were testament to that. Still, he did consider Theon a friend and, while they may not be as close as they were once, they still got along well. It was just moments like there where both were reminded of the truth of things

Theon was generally well behaved and a good man, but he always acted harshly when faced with the more open reminders of his station as ward. Such as having the lord or lady of Winterfell review any letters he sent home. This had been part of the process even before Theon had found out about Winter. Now it was a necessary evil. Balon Greyjoy couldn't find out about Winter, or Jon, before they were ready. No one could.

* * *

" _That is a dragon." Theon's face was blank, eyes wide as he stared at the little creature on the floor between Robb and Jon. She was half the size of the direwolf pups, but seemed larger when she spread her wings. Ghost and Greywind had shifted into a sitting position when the young man had pushed his way into the room, calling for Robb, eyes glaring in his direction._

 _Robb stared at his friend, shocked. Theon shouldn't have been in the family quarters at this hour, let alone without permission or an escort. The guard should never have let him pass._

" _It is," Jon said as he stood, stepping in front of Winter who had flared her wings, tail shifting warily behind her._

" _How the fuck is there a dragon here?" Theon asked, eyes flitting between Jon and Robb. "Where did you get it?"_

 _They glanced at each other, grey eyes meeting blue, each filled with an edge of panic and worry. His brother was the first to recover, face steeling into an icy mask._

"She _hatched," Jon said simply, voice void of emotion._

 _Robb glanced at his brother, noticing the minute shaking of his hands, the line of worry creasing his forehead for all he was attempting to keep his face an icy mask. Jon and Theon's relationship had always generally been frosty, but since the pups had been found . . . since Jon had gained all those memories . . ._

" _Theon," Robb said, clearing his throat, as he stood as well. He stared at the older boy, now a man grown, until he met his gaze. Attempting to imitate his father's demeanor, he asked, voice cool, "What are you doing here?"_

" _It's well past your birthday," Theon answered, voice hollow and still filled with shock, after a moment. His eyes were still locked on Winter. "You're four and ten, more than old enough to become a man. I had already visited the brothel thrice by the time I was four and ten." Usually those words would have been thick with pride, but now they just sounded empty._

 _Robb had heard the tales time and again, of Theon's escapades in Winter Town. If it hadn't been for his father's lectures, and his mother's hard eyes at the sight of Jon when they were younger, Robb might have ventured down to find out what all the fuss was about regarding the embrace of a woman himself by now._

 _But that was neither here nor there. Theon's presence in the family wing was a serious break in protocol. He should never have been allowed here. He was a ward, yes, but unlike Jon he carried not an ounce of Stark blood and had sworn no oaths to keep his foster family's secrets. The only time he should have been able to come here was in an emergency and even then one would hope that others would arrive first._

" _Who let you in the family wing, Theon," Robb said, anger simmering beneath the calm tone of his voice. "I want a name."_

 _Theon just stared at him for a long moment and then back down at the dragon._

"Now _, Theon," he barked as Grey Wind began to growl._

* * *

"I will give this to Maester Luwin before dinner," Robb said, pocketing it. "Are you interested in a spar? There's some time before dinner."

Glancing away, Theon nodded sharply, "Of course Lord Stark."

"Robb," he said sighing. "We are still friends, are we not?"

Theon didn't answer for a long moment, but turned to meet his eyes. Sometimes Robb wondered exactly what went through his mind and how long would it be until the young man did something like the other Theons Jon had known. But this Theon wasn't those men and he could only hope he wouldn't betray them.

"Yes," Theon answered finally, "of course we are. It's just . . ." he sighed, eyes dropping to Grey Wind's form at Robb's side.

"I'm sorry if you've felt left out," Robb said, reaching out he laid a hand on Theon's shoulder. "There's a lot going on that must be handled within the family."

"And I'm not family," Theon muttered bitterly, voice low enough Robb barely caught the words.

"Not by blood, no," Robb acknowledged before stepping away. He motioned with a jerk of his chin and they began walking, "but we've grown up together, Theon. No matter your status you've grown up beside me, Jon, Sansa, Arya, Bran, and even Rickon. Family isn't just about blood . . . and it pains me and my father to have to do things like review your letters. Politics is a tricky thing, though, and for all that you are like a brother to us, you are also my father's ward." He stopped and turned to face Theon. "One day you will return to your _birth_ family and you will become Lord Greyjoy of the Iron Islands. You'll have people to look after just as I will have people here to look after. I hope that I will be able to call you brother on that day and far into the future, but politics dictate that we must be cautious. If I were your father's ward the same steps would be taken and you know it."

Theon looked away. That was a lie and they both knew it. Theon's father would never have taken a hostage—had Lord Balon Greyjoy taken Winterfell all the Stark children would have been slaughtered and the castle looted and maybe even burned to the ground.

Sparring with Theon wasn't as challenging as it used to be, not since Jon had stopped adjusting his skill level when fighting Robb and gotten used to his shorter stature and reach. Robb's abilities had grown in leaps and bounds beside his brother's and, after a short time of guilt tinged jealousy, he had developed a drive that made him work harder. It was his goal to match his brother and perhaps truly beat him with the sword one day.

Growing up Robb had been reminded time and time again of his position and, by that same token, Jon's position within not only Winterfell but the entire noble ranking. Robb had always been proud to be Ned's heir, eldest son of the Lord of Winterfell, but he had also always been saddened that his boyhood companion, best friend, _brother_ seemed to have no hope to amount to anything in the eyes of the greater realm. Even in the eyes of members of their own house. Had Jon been a trueborn second son things would have been different. He may have been able to have a hold, marry a lady . . . have any number of positions within Robb's household.

Robb would have allowed him much of that anyway, one day when they were both grown and he became Lord of Winterfell. But that day had always seemed too far off for Jon and his brother had lost hope that such a thing would never happen. He still cringed at the memory of shooting down Jon during play when he decried that he was one of the Lords of Winterfell after Robb announced his own choice of play.

Robb had hated the crestfallen expression that graced his brother's face, regretting his words near instantly. The sullen attitude that had befallen Jon for the rest of the day, and several days later, had guilt seeping through Robb's bones for weeks. Jon had never been able to escape what Robb believed he saw as his fate. At least, not until fate stepped in.

It was hard to believe that his brother, who still acted very much his equal in age, also had the memories of a man grown and hundreds of lives lived. But Robb trusted Jon and trusted his father. The stories they heard were just too accurate to be anything but the truth.

 _Blessed by the Gods_ , Robb had said once.

Jon had turned a dark glare on him and bit out, _Cursed by the Gods, you mean_.

Robb hadn't mentioned the Gods having a hand in his situation again, not to Jon anyway.

It had shocked him to learn that Jon was not his brother but his cousin. The details staggering him, but he'd pressed on. No matter who had born him, they were brothers and always would be. No matter what others may think or say Jon was _good_. He was family. He was loved. He deserved to be.

* * *

Dinner was a rather quiet affair since Father and Mother had left, Sansa, Arya, and Jon traveling with them. Rickon pouted through the meal, often mumbling questions about when their mother would be back. It would be several moons before most of them would return. They were visiting the major Lords and Ladies along the East coast, starting with the Manderly's in White Harbor. Jon would be gone for at least a few moons as well, traveling to Braavos to visit the Iron Bank much to Robb's annoyance.

He had wanted to travel with his brother, but Lord Stark had ordered him to remain in Winterfell along with the boys to oversee the castle. It would be a good learning experience; Robb had been told. A chance for him to stand on his own without having the Lordship thrust upon him without any preparation.

There were times he had push his envy of his brother down deep, but he knew that Jon's life was not as simple as it had once seemed to be. As a bastard Jon would have had simultaneously more freedom and less options than Robb as heir of Winterfell, but he wasn't a bastard anymore. Like Robb he was a trueborn son of a noble house and likely the heir. If the truth of his birth came out the pressure to rally a force to retake the throne would mount and even if he didn't there would be another pressure—one Robb had felt for years only his was lessened by the knowledge of having four younger siblings—one to find a wife and continue the family name.

There were only two other Targaryens alive as far as they knew, Viserys and Daenerys, and, from what Jon had said, Viserys was a monster as mad as his father had been. Robb wondered if Jon would break his word to their father and arrange the elder Targaryen's assassination as he had in previous lives. It would surely be easy for him to do while he was in Braavos; he could easily arrange for a faceless man to locate the 'Beggar King' and remove him from the world.

* * *

" _It's tempting," Jon said quietly, tapping his quill against the parchment he was writing on. "He's a cruel man. You can't even imagine how he treats his own sister . . ." he lifted his eyes to meet Robb's. "Daenerys is a sweet, gentle young woman but his treatment of her and what happens to her after he . . ._ sells _her to Khal Drogo hardens her. Makes her into a conqueror and a true Queen."_

" _But you would change it if you could?" Robb asked, thinking of the stories Jon had told him of Daenerys and her dragons. Of the lives he had traveled the Great Grass Sea with his aunt's Khalasar._

" _I would," Jon nodded, brow furrowing. "I think . . . but I'm not sure if I should yet." He stared towards the window. "We have Winter . . . but even with_ three _dragons defeating the Others has always been difficult." He bit his lip in thought and then sighed, shaking his head. "It would be better to have four."_

" _More does sound as if it would be better," Robb agreed, "in this case at least." Shifting the papers stacked before him he looked through the notes of various lives Jon had lived, reading over the actions Jon had taken and what he believed the consequences of each were. "Could she not hatch at least one without the sacrifice bit?"_

" _I don't think so," Jon said slowly, glancing up at him. "At least I have never seen it happen. Either the dragons hatched upon Khal Drogo's funeral pyre or they hatched upon Viserys'. As far as I know it only happened upon Viserys' one time and I was there for it."_

" _But you did?"_

" _The egg was given to me as a babe," Jon bit his lip as he shuffled through a few sheets of notes. "I think that may be why it was so easy for me to hatch it. That or perhaps Winterfell and the crypts have some amount of magic in it that helped as well." He shook his head. "I don't think they had an egg to lay in her crib when she was born and if they did it is likely still on Dragonstone. Maybe . . ." he paused, picking up his quill again, "maybe she could have managed one."_

 _"But that would leave us down one dragon."_

 _Jon nodded. "It would."_

 _They fell back into a comfortable silence as they arranged the notes and rewrote them where needed. Jon's writing had been sloppy when he'd first written some of them, shaking with emotions as he first relived the memories. The quiet was only broken a few times by Robb asking clarifying questions about what he or their father had written._

 _Jon had a relatively high opinion of his aunt, Robb knew, and painted a pretty picture of a beautiful woman who walked through fire—literally and figuratively—and come out the better for it. Though there were times he'd frown as he described decisions she made, actions she took, as if looking back at now, so far removed, they had begun to take on a different light._

" _What will you do when she comes to Westeros?" Robb asked a while later._

" _I don't know."_

 _Robb raised an eyebrow. "You don't know?"_

" _Daenerys can be stubborn," Jon smiled slightly, "and she will not want to set aside the dream of regaining the Iron Throne. I will not let her destroy our family though, Robb. I may be a Targaryen, but I am a Stark first. If she or even if Aegon comes for the throne . . . it will depend on the dynamics of power in the kingdom."_

 _If the Lannisters ended up in power, Robb knew that Jon wouldn't hesitate to support Daenerys or Aegon. If Robert was on the throne still . . . well therein lay the conundrum. Their father wouldn't abandon his loyalty to his foster brother unless their House or the North was threatened._

 _Robb wasn't sure where his lord father would lay their loyalties if Prince Joffrey ascended to the throne. Not after the tales Jon told them._

" _I will do what is best for our family and what is best for the North," Robb said softly after a while, setting down his quill._

 _Jon smiled, glancing up at him. "As will I." Grey eyes dropped to stare at the pages before him. "I think you'd like her," he said after a long moment._

" _Daenerys?"_

" _Yes."_

" _Did we ever meet?" Robb was genuinely curious, he hadn't come across any notes that told of him living long enough to treat with the Dragon Queen as yet._

" _A few times." Jon ducked his head, attempting to hide behind his dark curls._

 _Robb narrowed his eyes as Jon didn't continue speaking. "Is this one of the times you're going to refuse to tell me more . . . like the time I asked about my marriage to Margaery Tyrell?"_

 _He had seen the notes on that life, much to Jon's annoyance, but his brother had declined to give him any more information on the subject._

 _Jon glanced up at him, grey eyes shining with mirth and lips quirked in a grin._

" _All right," Robb shoved his chair back from the table, nearly knocking over a pot of ink, "that's enough of this for the day. You and me, in the practice ring, ten minutes."_

* * *

"Lord Robb—"

"Robb," Robb corrected his cousin quickly.

"Robb." Robin Arryn smiled as he poked at his food with his fork, pushing it around his plate. "Bran says you're an excellent horseman."

"I am more than decent riding a horse," Robb said, a grin quirking his lips which he hid behind his glass as he sipped from it.

His cousin bit his lip and glanced Bran's way before taking a deep breath to muster up his courage. "Mother never let me ride a horse. I always had to ride with her," he said gaze falling to his plate. "I was wondering if, perhaps, you might teach me—me and Bran—the basics?"

Robb watched them for a long moment, trying to emulate how his father would have responded to such a request. When Robin's fingers began to fidget be finally broke his silence. "I suppose," he said and then waited for his cousin to look up at him before continuing. "If Maester Haburt says it is okay and the weather is clear I don't see why we couldn't go over the basics tomorrow morning."

Both boys grinned widely at him, showing off their gap-toothed smiles.

"If you promise me that there will be _no more climbing_ of the castle walls," he stared pointedly at them until their faces adopted a sheepish expression and they nodded violently. "Well then, Robin, first thing tomorrow visit your maester and I will meet with him after."

The boys wouldn't stop talking of their plans for the next morning and which horse they would ride for the rest of the meal; Robb excused himself after he was done and made his way to the Godswood, his guard for the evening, Wildem, shadowing him a few paces back.

The clearing was quiet and he stopped to light a few torches on his way to the Heart Tree, the glow reflecting off the pond. Grey Wind had appeared at his side as they entered the wood, his yellow eyes shining in the torch light. He'd been hunting with Summer and Shaggydog much of the day. They were all so large now, though the mother wolf was still at least a quarter taller.

As Robb knelt before the tree, Grey Wind lay down next to him, his side pressing against Robb's thigh. He prayed to the Gods for guidance, for his family to be safe, and for the North's preparations not to be in vain. Lastly he prayed that Jon would make the right choices and not do anything stupid while on his journey—that his brother would return to them safe and sound with Ghost at his side and Winter flying in the skies above him.

He prayed that in this world they would have a happy ending.


End file.
